


The Case of the Very Real Mummy

by mandysimo13



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action, Adventure, Eventual Smut, I promise, Intimacy, John's POV, Kissing, M/M, Mild non con, Minor Character Death, Movie AU, POV Multiple, Sherlock's POV, Strong Language, Swearing, The Mummy AU, author takes some liberties, but it's very quick and not at all bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:25:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7117492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a librarian who is out to prove himself to the whole world. John's a soldier, lost and in a bad way after his garrison is destroyed. Lestrade's just along for the ride. Together, they travel to the city of the dead, Hamunaptra, to search for treasure. But they find much more than that. Unwittingly, they unleash a 3,000 year-old, cursed mummy upon the earth and it's up to them to stop him from destroying the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a "The Mummy" movie au. I stick pretty close to the story, even though I do take a few liberties. I hope you enjoy it and, as always, kudos and comments are much appreciated!
> 
> **This title is labelled mature only because of the ending chapter. The rest of this story is rated Teen. **

The last normal night of John Watson’s life started with a story as he sat with his garrison around the campfire.

Two things that John had learned about the desert whilst he was deployed in Egypt were as follows: that everything centers around heat (sweltering in it during the day and huddling around it at night) and that everything is cursed or haunted or brings bad luck. To hear the locals say it you’d think everything in the country had a vengeful spirit attached to it. John was a man of logic, a man of science. He never put much stock in ghost stories.

But he had always loved a good story.

So he sat with his men as one of the locals told them a story about Hamunaptra and the Pharaohs of old and of curses.

The legend says that a priest of Seti the first, Imhotep, fell in love with one of the Pharaoh’s wives. Her name was Ank-Su-Namun and she was beautiful. So beautiful that no man in the land of Egypt was allowed to touch her. Seti doted on her and gave her everything she desired; gold, jewels, animals of all kinds, books, a riverboat to call her own, trinkets from all corners of the globe to make her smile. But nothing in the world could make her love him as Imhotep had already held her heart in his hands. They hid their dangerous love from the eyes of Seti and his many eyes at court, stealing moments in private while Imhotep’s priests kept watch. They were so careful for so long, it had become second nature. But time let them grow complacent in their trists.

And then one day the Pharaoh discovered them.

They had been in Seti’s own apartments when they were discovered. At first he hadn’t know anything was awry aside from Imhotep’s priests being present. But then he had seen a smudge in her intricate makeup and demanded to know why it was out of place. Fearing Seti’s wrath Imhotep made a rash decision; he took Seti’s own sword from his belt and buried the blade in his stomach to the hilt. The Pharaoh had been betrayed by one whom he trusted most highly. Dumbfounded by the turn of events he could only gape as he felt the fresh pain of a shorter blade enter his back between his shoulders.

Together, Imhotep and Ank-Su-Namun killed the Pharaoh.

Knowing if they were ever discovered that death would be inevitable, the two had devised a plan that would keep them together forever. The plan involved a great sacrifice for Ank-Su-Namun. She would need to die while Imhotep fled to evade capture and raise her from the dead whilst he performed a spell on himself to give them both eternal life. Together they would live in happiness forever.

The plan did not fall out as they had hoped. Imhotep was captured as Ank-Su-Namun killed herself. The whole of Egypt would soon know of his involvement in the Pharaoh’s death and there would be no peace for them. But with the help of his most loyal followers Imhotep was able to escape his prison cell and they helped him find the body of the woman he loved. He found her in the palace’s preparation chamber, awaiting her turn to be mummified and vilified in the afterlife. Her body was already in the beginning stages of mummification, her organs removed and placed in their respective canopic jars. Imhotep looked down at the woman he loved, wracked with pain at seeing her as a mere shell, all because of him, and pressed a kiss to her dry forehead.

Imhotep’s priests helped to gather her and her organs together and raced to the one place where Imhotep would be able to perform the most dangerous rite of his life: Hamunaptra. With great, solemn ceremony, the men at Imhotep’s side help carry her body and the canopic jars containing her organs to the temple of the dead. While they paraded her through the city of the dead Imhotep stole from it’s hiding place the Book of the Dead which held the spells he needed to bring his love back from the dead.

In a matter of hours everything was prepared. Ank-Su-Namun’s body was laid out on the altar, her organs laid out next to her body to be replaced, a sacrifice nearby to appease the gods. All that was left was to say the words to draw her spirit from the underworld. He would need to be quick with his words and his priests quick with their actions if she would survive the process.

Imhotep spoke words of calling from the book and, amazingly, her spirit floated up from the pool that served as the gateway to the underworld. It settled itself over Ank-Su-Namun’s body and sank under her skin. Her eyes popped open, unbelievably glassy considering her condition seconds before, and she gasped for breath. Imhotep’s priests were about to slot her organs into her body while Imhotep’s knife was poised above his sacrifice’s throat, ready to finish the rite and bring her fully into life.

But at the last moment, before they could finish the spells, Seti’s faithful guards burst into the room and stopped them. His knife was torn from his hand and his sacrifice was ushered to safety. Imhotep’s priests were shackled and led away and Imhotep watched as Ank-Su-Namun’s spirit drifted up from her body and plunged itself into the pool, returning itself to the underworld. Lost forever.

Imhotep’s heart sank. He had failed again and now there would be no saving either of them.

It didn’t take long for Rameses II, the son of Seti, to extend his justice upon Imhotep and the men who helped him. The priests were sentenced to the unbearable fate of being buried alive. They would not receive the burial rites that protect their spirits in their travels through the underworld. Their names would not be remembered. They were doomed for all eternity.

But they got off easy.

Ramses wanted Imhotep to suffer. So great were his crimes that Imhotep was sentenced to endure the Hom-Dai, the most feared of all curses in Egypt’s history. Reserved only for the deepest of blasphemers and criminals who had sinned against the royal family. In both having relations with Ank-Su-Namun and killing the Pharaoh, Imhotep had sealed his fate. While his priests were being prepared to be buried alive in the city of the dead, the Hom-Dai was performed on Imhotep. His tongue was cut from his mouth and then his body wrapped in linen, a mock of a proper mummy but without any of the amulets that blessed the deceased, he was then lowered into his sarcophagus. As he struggled to move his limbs a priest wearing the head of Anubis approached him with a large pot. From it, sounds of scratching could be heard and the onlookers braced themselves for the screaming that would occur. With a word of prayer to the gods, the priest tipped the jar over Imhotep’s body and a flood of scarab beetles blanketed Imhotep and began their feast. The panic from Imhotep, knowing exactly what had happened, erupted from him in a scream that was only muffled when the priests placed the lid of his sarcophagus over him.

The story was interrupted by a curious soldier. “But why was this curse feared so much? I can understand the pain and fear coming with buried alive but there must be more to it than that.”

Their storyteller said, “if Imhotep were ever to arise he would be immortal. Neither living nor dead. For the ancients, to never die and to not be recognized by the gods in the afterlife, that was one of the worst things that could happen. A person would have no peace, a wandering shell.”

“But you can’t live forever,” the soldier protested. “It’s not logical.”

The storyteller frowned and said, “do no speak of what you do not know.” This silenced the soldier and the storyteller continued. “If he were ever awakened Imhotep would not only be immortal but he would be all powerful. Able to control the sands on which we sit, able to conjure anything from thin air, and he would bring with him the ten great plagues of Egypt. He would consume the world and all would suffer.”

John chuckled and when all eyes turned to him he sobered and apologized. “I’m sorry to offend. Clearly you believe that such a thing could occur. It just all seems rather implausible. Dead men don’t simply come back to life.” He leaned forward and continued. “And even if he could come back to life, if it hasn’t happened by now, somewhere around three thousand years later, it’s very unlikely that it will ever happen.”

“We are in the city of the dead itself, Captain Watson...Hamunaptra. Anything could happen, but we are fortunate that it does not.” He paused and added confidently, “we have the Medjai to thank for that.”

“The Medjai,” John inquired curiously. “Is none of your business. And I think you’ve had enough of our “implausible stories” for one night, yes?” The man rose from his seat by the fire and bid them all good evening.

John watched him go, genuinely sorry he had offended the man. But he shrugged it off rationalizing that there was no possible way his story could be true. People do not rise from the grave and they certainly cannot perform great feats of magic. They do not bring the Biblical plagues of Egypt with them, either. The whole prospect seemed like a great story to keep little ones in bed at night. _You better go to sleep or else Priest Imhotep will come and snatch you from your bed and take you back to the underworld._

“Ridiculous,” John huffed under his breath, taking a swig of water from his canteen.

“Not everything from the old world is hokum, my friend.” Beni, a sketchy but resourceful man from John’s platoon sidled up next to him to share the heat of the fire. “Sometimes it is best not to insult the dead.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” John vowed.

As he lay in his cot he tried to puzzle out just how much of the story could be true. It was true that Hamunaptra actually existed; his presence there was proof enough. It might have been true that a trusted priest of Seti had betrayed him, slept with his wife and murdered him. It was very possible that if such a priest existed that he was punished for his crimes. But for him to be interred somewhere beneath the ground on which he slept, just waiting for a chance to rise and bring with him the apocalypse? _Not a chance_ , John thought with a scoff and rolled over and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

 

///~\\\\\

 

The next day they were ready for battle. Their enemies were approaching fast on horseback while John’s garrison loaded guns and took cover. John cursed once more, and probably not for the last time, his drunken, youthful escapades. No girl, no matter how pretty, was worth joining the hellhole that was the French Legionaires. Despite John’s British heritage, the fact that he was an orphan with a questionable background made him acceptable for enlistment, and John cursed every minute of it. But he never half-assed a thing in his life. He rose through the ranks to become Captain, a man who fought bravely with weapons of war and learned to help in the medical tents when it was needed. He was a confident leader who took charge of every situation he was dropped into. And yet, as he looked out over his men, he knew it was a suicide mission.

They were woefully under equipped and undertrained and every man under John’s command were untrustworthy to the nth degree. Rogues, criminals and degenerates. Even the closest thing he had to a companion, Beni, was a grave robbing scumbag; no wonder they had been chosen for the mission from hell. No one would miss a few hundred criminals. _Invade the City of the Dead_ , they said, _there would be riches beyond compare!_ , they said. John adjusted the equipment that was attached to him, reloaded his gun and walked to the front line to give orders. If he was going to go down there in the bleedin’ sand, he was going to give as good as he got.

He crouched behind a low wall next to Beni, ready to give the orders to shoot. He turned to look at his sketchy friend. He gave him a reassuring pat on the back but doubted it truly helped. His eyes were then drawn line of horsemen that came into view over the horizon. In a few minutes all out war would break out and John had put himself in the front line. Stupid man, he scolded himself. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. A horse whinnied behind him and he turned his head to see Colonel Guizot fleeing from battle. John rolled his eyes and muttered curses under his breath. With no other leader in sight he shouted to the men around him, “hold until I say so!”

He flicked his eyes over to Beni who had begun shaking hard with nervousness. “You with me, buddy Beni?”

“Oh, your strength gives me strength,” Beni replied unconvincingly.

As the horsemen grew closer, close enough that their hoofbeats sounded like thunder, Beni’s resolve crumbled, his attachment to life much higher than his sense of honor. He abandoned his post, taking off after their Colonel and running for a safe hiding place. John didn’t let Beni’s cowardice get under his skin. He shouted to the men, “ready! Steady!” He waited to give the order to shoot until the first line was almost near enough to overtake them, wanting the first line to trip up the second. At the last second he shouted clearly, “FIRE!”

The air around them erupted in shots from all sides. Horses fell, their riders going down with them to be trampled or shot. Men were shot from their mounts and shot from their spots of cover behind John. Men and horses alike screamed in terror and pain. Everywhere around the Captain was the chaos of war.

His strategy had worked for a while, shooting at the advancing line as they came close to trip up the ones directly behind, but the men grew impatient, anxious, and scared. Their shots went wild. Instead of the clean line of fire John wanted, his men were doing a literal “spray and pray” and it wasn’t long before John’s formation broke. Horses galloped over their wall of cover and enemies with guns and swords came at them and began mowing John’s men down in earnest.

 _Who even uses swords anymore!_ , John thought as he was being pursued through the city. Every few feet he would duck behind a wall or column and pop off a few rounds before running to the next safe spot. After a few minutes of running he found Beni again. He was running towards an open tomb they had been exploring.

John shouted to him, “Beni! Wait for me!”

He startled, unaware anyone had followed him. He doubled his pace, reaching the tomb and pushing the door closed.

“You little wanker! Don’t you dare close that door on me!” John ran as hard as he could but reached it just as the door closed, locking John out. He pounded on the giant stone door, jarring his hand, and shouted. “You fucking prick!”

And then a bullet ricocheted off the stone just above his head and alerted John to his pursuers.

 _“Shit!_ ,” he whispered, taking off again.

His feet pounded the sand, slipping on its looseness. He felt a bloom of pain in his shoulder, knocking him off balance. His hand flew to his shoulder, finding it red and wet with blood. The anger at his very real possibility of dying in the sand drove him on. His legs began to falter and his mental map of the area failed him. He took a wrong turn and ended up cornered in a dead end.

The men on horseback behind him cocked their guns and lined up in front of him, ready to shoot him. Knowing he was about to die, John Watson stared them down and silently dared them to do it. But just when he thought the end was near a horse spooked, a man muttered something frantic in arabic, and then the lot of them bolted.

He was alive.

Alone and bleeding, but alive.

John didn’t know how to deal with that bit of reality. John looked around him and found himself standing at the foot of some statue with the head of a dog, at least he thought it was a dog, and the wind seemed to whisper. His ears strained to hear if it was his men or the enemy or just the wind playing tricks. But the words were not of a language he could understand, they were harsh and menacing, swirling around him. Then without warning, the sand at his feet swirled around him, enveloping him in a whirlwind of grit and knocking him to the ground.

Truly frightened with what he had just seen, John scrambled to get up. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder he bolted, running for the openness of the valley that lay in front of him beyond the city. He looked back once as he ran and swore he had seen a face yawning in the sand. He clutched the wound in his shoulder and pressed on, running for the open desert.

He ran until the pain in his shoulder stole his breath. He paused and took stock of his situation. He was several days on foot from the nearest city, no water, an open wound, and no decent coverage from the elements. He looked at the cliff behind him and saw a line of men on horseback watching him. They did not seem to be pursuing, only watching. Unsure of who they were or what they intended John decided against raiding his fallen comrades’ bodies for supplies. As it stood, he would either die in the desert or he would live.

After what he had just witnessed, the carnage and the impossible sight in the sand, John Watson wasn’t sure of which he’d prefer.


	2. Chapter 2

-Three Years Later-

 

Sherlock balanced perfectly on the ladder upon which he stood. He was reshelving the last of the returned books and then he would be done for the day. One by one the books went neatly onto the shelf until he came to the last book in his arms. He frowned and muttered, displeased, “Tuthmosis.” He sighed deeply and said, “you don’t belong here.”

He craned his neck, seeing the offending empty slot where the book should go. He mentally calculated the distance between the bookshelves and the length of his arm and determined that, if he was very careful, he could place the book where it belonged without having to climb down and reposition the ladder. Gripping the top wrung tightly, he slowly leaned back with his arm outstretched. The edge of the book grazed the lip of the shelf and he smiled in triumph before the ladder suddenly lurched underneath him and he was pulled erect with the inertia.

His ladder had become a very inconvenient set of stilts.

 _Bloody, buggering hell_.

He refused to call for help. He got himself into this mess and he would be damn sure to get himself out of it. All he had to do was gently land against either bookshelf without knocking it over and the problem would be solved. No casualties. He chanced a peek at his feet and saw not only the ladder wobbling beneath him but the book he dropped with the binding broken and pages askew. _Well, almost no casualties_ , he grumbled internally.

He tilted the ladder in the direction from whence it came and tilted forward slightly. Without his permission the ladder slid under the weight of him and the speed of the sliding ladder propelled him into the shelf. Much to his dismay he felt himself begin to fall and he knew that if he fell the bookshelf would also fall. It would create a domino effect and knock down each and every one of the bookshelves that were set in a great oval in the center of the room. It was going to be a disaster.

Sliding down the ladder, his knuckles hitting books and ladder rungs all the way down, he could hear the cacophonous sound of the bookshelves starting to fall around him. When he landed he panicked and pushed himself up from the ground to avoid getting hit with the bookshelf behind him. He stood with enough time to watch the last four bookshelves fall. All around him he saw pages fluttering and dust settling.

Shoving his fingers into his hair to tug at his roots in frustration he let a sigh of aggravated acceptance leave his nose in a long huff. _Mycroft is definitely not going to be happy about this_ , he thought while he formulated a plan for righting the shelves.

“What on earth have you done to my library, Sherlock?”

“It’s not your library, Mycroft.” _It’s as if thinking of him conjures him_.

“Might as well be with our family’s contribution to this establishment. And my own work with the foundation.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock waved away his brother’s argument. “We’re all very proud of your accomplishments,” he said sarcastically.

“Can you explain what happened here?” Mycroft crossed over the crumpled bookshelves, careful not to slide on the dislodged books.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think, _I think_ , the bookshelves toppled in a spectacular fashion.”

“Brilliant deduction, brother mine.” He stopped a couple feet from Sherlock and put his hands on his hips. “Care to share why?”

“The ladder slipped,” Sherlock replied curtly.

“The ladder slipped. Could it be because you were careless, again, with our equipment.” Sherlock didn’t deign a response. Mycroft didn’t need for him to respond. “Why do I put up with you and your generally irresponsible and careless behavior?”

“Because I can read and write ancient Egyptian, I can decipher hieroglyphics and hieratic. Not to mention I’m probably the only person, besides you, within a thousand miles who can properly maintain this library.” He sniffed in disgust at the mess around them. “Though you let me do little else.”

“I put up with you because mummy and father insisted I look out for you. And I’ve done everything in my power to see that you are cared for.” He frowned at Sherlock and said, “I know you were sore about not getting the Bembridge Scholar acceptance this year but you need to be patient.” He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder only to have him jerk away from the touch. He sighed and said, “clean up the library. Make sure the books aren’t damaged. I’ll send someone to help you.”

Without another word he turned and left Sherlock alone in the library. He was still fuming at his gloriously terrible misjudgment when he heard a shuffle in the room next door. It was late and no one was supposed to be in the antiquities room. Rolling his eyes and shoving his sleeves up his arms he stalked into the room to look for the trespasser.

He peeked his head in and saw no one. Then he heard another shuffle further inside the room. Certain that someone was lurking where they shouldn’t, Sherlock grabbed one of the ancient-looking torches off the wall to light his way. His eyes swept over the room, searching between giant statues and massive sarcophagi for an intruder. He rounded a column fragment when a man jumped out screaming.

Sherlock screamed and dropped the torch. Only to turn beet red when he heard Lestrade’s familiar laughter. “You’re a right prick, you know that.”

Lestrade bent in half, clutching his stomach with his laughter. “You should have seen your face!”

“Anyone else come to humiliate me today? I feel I’ve had quite enough of that.”

He turned on his heel and walked back towards the library but stopped when Lestrade grabbed his arm. “Calm down, mate! It was just a joke!”

“Like your career?”

Lestrade scoffed, a grin on his face. “Like yours is much better?” Sherlock scowled and Lestrade held his hands up in a gesture of surrender and said, “my bad. Didn’t mean nothing by it.” He looked at him and asked, “Bembridge Scholars again?”

Sherlock nodded once, curtly, and added,“they cited ‘not enough experience in the field’ as their grounds for denial this time. Which wouldn’t be a problem if Mycroft would let me actually do something for a change.” He worried his hands and bit his lip. “And I may have just knocked down every damn bookshelf in the library.”

Lestrade’s mouth hung open. “What? You mean on purpose?”

“Of course not on purpose!” He groaned and dropped his head to his hands, sinking down to sit on the foot of a statue. “I’m never going to do anything right am I?”

Lestrade dropped down to look at his friend and said, “you do plenty right. Just maybe stop trying to wreck your brother’s library.” That got half a chuckle from Sherlock and Lestrade counted it as a win. He patted his shoulder and stood and said, “now quit your whining and get up. I’ve got a present for you.

” Sherlock groaned harder and stood. “Don’t tell me. Another useless, valueless, piece of junk that you want me to show to Mycroft to sell for the museum?”

Lestrade grinned. “Got it in one.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small box. He held it out for Sherlock to take and relished the genuine look of surprise on his face.

“Where did you find this?”

Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets and played innocent. “Uhh...would you believe me if I said it was on a dig in Thebes?”

Sherlock answered honestly. “No.” His fingers traced the edges of the box, feeling it’s ridges and fingering the delicate inscriptions.

“Tell me I found something at least,” Lestrade pleaded.

Sherlock’s fingers found a button and the box snapped open, the top flipping out on its hinges to form a star. Nestled inside was an extremely well preserved piece of parchment. Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Lestrade,” he said evenly. “You may have found something.”

Lestrade punched the air and said, “about bloody time!”

It took all of twenty minutes for Sherlock to carefully unfold the delicate parchment and decipher it. It turned out to be a map and it lead to the most surprising of places. Sherlock’s heart beat rapidly in his chest. _No...it couldn’t be_. He put his hands on Lestrade’s shoulders and shook him roughly in his excitement. “You have no idea what this is do you?” Lestrade silently shook his head, worried at Sherlock’s manic excitement. “You’ve found us a goldmine, Lestrade! Both figuratively and literally!”

Lestrade blinked several times before responding. “I’m sorry, what?”

Sherlock snapped up the map and showed him the tiny city in the corner of the map. “You, my dear Lestrade, have found us the way to Hamunaptra.”

 

///~\\\\\

 

The two men raced off towards Mycroft’s office. Sherlock knew his brother would be working late and was determined to make him see it. If there was anything that would get him into the Bembridge Scholars, finding the real city of Hamunaptra would be it. Without stopping to knock, Sherlock burst into Mycroft’s office.

“Isn’t there a library you should be cleaning,” Mycroft asked, not looking up from his paperwork.

“Lestrade just gave me a reason not to.” He dropped the map over what Mycroft was looking at and smiled with undisguised glee. He pointed to the map and said, “do you see the cartouche there? It’s the royal seal of Seti the first. Absolutely certain.”

Mycroft looked at him dubiously but decided to humor his little brother and said, “let’s look shall we?” He grabbed his little magnifier and put it to his eye to examine the markings on the map.

Lestrade asked who Seti was and Sherlock went off on a five minute report of the Pharaoh Seti and his accomplishments, both real and supposed, and mentioned his great wealth. At the mention of his vast treasury Lestrade proclaimed Seti to be his favorite of the Pharaoh’s but Sherlock ignored him in favor of waiting on a confirmation from Mycroft on the map’s authenticity.

“Where did you say you found this,” Mycroft asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Came in this little box,” Lestrade said, holding it out.

“From where?”

“Thebes,” both Sherlock and Lestrade answered too quickly.

Mycroft looked as if he didn’t believe them, rightly so, and bent his head again to look at the map once more. Sherlock pointed to the spot on the map he was most excited about and said, “see this hieratic here?” He beamed at his brother, “it’s Hamunaptra!”

Mycroft scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know as well as I that Hamunaptra is a myth that arab storytellers told to greek and roman tourists.”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and began pacing. “Yes, yes, we all know the whole story about the city being cursed and overseen by an undead mummy and the city being lost under the sand never to be found and chock-full of treasure but,” Sherlock stopped suddenly and whirled on his brother. “There’s some very good evidence to support that a city such as this may have actually existed. You hold now in your hands the proof!”

“You’re sure you’re talking about the real Hamunaptra,” Lestrade stared, dumbfounded.

“Absolutely,” Sherlock said with complete confidence. “The City of the Dead, where the earliest Pharaohs were said to have been lain to rest. Along with all their wealth.”

Lestrade beamed. “This could be the find of a lifetime.” Mycroft snorted at that and Lestrade grew serious. “Oh come on, you know the story! How they hoarded away all their gold and treasure and they rigged the whole city to sink into the sand at the push of a lever. If no one ever pushed that lever that means decades of old Egyptian wealth just waiting for someone to come along and claim it!”

Mycroft held the paper closer to his lantern to try and get a better look at the inscriptions and said with a tired voice, “be that as it may, it is, as we say, a rather lot of nonsense- goodness me!”

The map caught fire and Mycroft dropped it to the ground. Both Lestrade and Sherlock dropped to their knees to snuff it out. They were able to save the majority of it, except the part that really mattered. Lestrade gasped, “you burnt off the part that led to the lost city!”

“And for the best, I’m sure,” Mycroft replied unapologetically. He looked pointedly at his brother. “I know you’re looking for something that will make the Bembridge Scholars accept you but I can tell you with confidence that this is just another myth. Another Atlantis or El Dorado. A city that has never existed. People lose their lives looking for places of legend. Don’t be one of them,” he warned Sherlock. He sighed and said, “go home. You clearly need the rest if you think you’ll ever be able to find myths made real.”

Sherlock scowled at him and gently folded the map and tucked it back into the box. “We’ll just see about that.”

Without another word he stormed off, leaving Lestrade to trail behind him and Mycroft exasperated beyond belief. Once they were far out of earshot of Sherlock’s infuriating brother Lestrade asked him, “so what do we do now?”

Sherlock thought a moment and then asked him, “we both know you didn’t get this on an actual dig. If you had it would have been confiscated.” He whirled on his friend and asked him, “truthfully, where did you get it?” Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, not quite meeting Sherlock’s eyes. He mumbled something unintelligible and Sherlock growled in irritation. “Out with it! If you want to find this place as badly as I do then you’ll tell me!”

At length Lestrade sighed deeply and admitted, “I may have stolen it off someone in a pub.”

“Fantastic,” Sherlock said, genuinely happy to be getting answers. “Do you know where we can find who you filched it from? We need to know where he got it in the first place.”

“Oh, I know where to find him, alright. But you’re not going to like where we’re going.”

Sherlock grinned a scarily big smile and twiddled his fingers beneath his chin in excitement. “Just try me.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock brimmed with excitement as he and Lestrade followed a clueless looking man into Cairo prison.

“Welcome, I’m Anderson, warden of this lovely prison. Step over the threshold of my charming abode.” Anderson didn’t sound particularly thrilled to be leading people into the overcrowded prison to have a chat, but the money Sherlock slipped him placated him somewhat.

“Lestrade, I’m surprised at you,” Sherlock chided goodnaturedly. “Why on earth would you think I wouldn’t enjoy this? It’s like being on holiday.” His eyes flitted between crowded cells, scattered free walking prisoners, and various ugly looking devices meant to torture and restrain a man. It was like slipping back in time and endlessly fascinating to him. Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at him.

“You’re a weird one, mate,” he said harmlessly.

Sherlock ignored the comment and asked Anderson, “can you tell me exactly what this man, this John Watson, is in prison for?”

Anderson stopped just in front of a bar covered section of the courtyard and answered him. “I’m not exactly sure, to be honest. When we were told of your visit I asked him myself.”

Sherlock hated the small-talky way Anderson dragged out his story. “And,” he asked impatiently.

Anderson shrugged and said, “he told me he was ‘just looking for a good time’.”

And then two guards burst through the door of the cell dragging a kicking and grunting man. He was filthy; covered in dust, grime and days old sweat. His dirty blond hair was long and shaggy and his face covered with an impressive growth of beard. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the sight. He turned to Lestrade for confirmation.

“This is our man?”

Lestrade nodded. “That’s our man.”

The guards pushed him to his knees and beat him a couple of times with their batons to push him into kneeling compliance. He growled at the pain and glared at them before turning his gaze to his visitors.

And then he smiled, a glimmer of a man he must have been before prison shining in his crystal blue eyes. “Can’t say I recall you two fine gentlemen.”

Lestrade seemed overwhelmed with relief at not being recognized and Sherlock elbowed him to remind him to keep it together. He cleared his throat and put on his fake sincere smile. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, this is my associate-”

“Associate my arse,” Lestrade muttered under his breath, earning him another elbow in the ribs.

Sherlock continued his introduction, “Gregory Lestrade.”

“That really doesn’t help me with who you are or what you want,” John stated simply. He grinned at him in a way that no man trapped in a squalid prison such as Cairo’s had any right to. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, though.” His eyes raked over Sherlock’s body appreciatively and Sherlock had to irrationally suppress a shudder.

To keep up an unaffected appearance, Sherlock rolled his eyes. He should have expected the shameless flirting from such degenerates and find it not at all flattering. But he did and Sherlock resolved to push it out of his mind for further scrutiny when he didn’t have more pressing matters on hand. Instead of deigning to comment on John’s rather forward compliment he said plainly, “we found your little puzzle box and we’ve come to ask you about it.”

John laughed. Actually laughed, deep and throaty as he clutched the bars. Once he sobered he said, “no you haven’t.”

Intrigued by the man’s behavior Sherlock just quirked an eyebrow and asked, “haven’t I?”

Shaking his head, smile still plastered on his face, he said, “you’ve come to talk about Hamunaptra.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a little in surprise but the rest of his face kept its usual calm demeanor. “What makes you think that?”

“You have the box, right?” Sherlock confirmed he did. “Well, that’s where I was when I found the damn thing.”

“What a load of hogwash,” Lestrade said, unbelieving.

John pointed his finger at Lestrade and asked, “hang on a tic…don’t I know you?”

Hastily Lestrade shook his head. Unwisely, he crouched down to talk to him face to face and said, “absolutely not, I might just have one of those faces that-”

His lie was interrupted by John’s fist connecting with his cheek, just below his eye. The man went down groaning and clutching his face. The punch earned John several more harsh beatings from his guards. Sherlock had no sympathy for either of them. He stepped over Lestrade’s body and said, “you really should have expected that. After all, you did steal from him.”

“Prick,” Lestrade groaned from the ground.

Sherlock stepped closer to the bars and said, “now that you’ve got that out of your system, are you telling me truthfully that you were at Hamunaptra?”

John’s cocky grin returned, his hands toying with the bars. “Yeah, I was there.”

“You swear?”

“Every damn day,” he said with a chuckle.

“Ha, ha very funny,” Sherlock replied dryly. “You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” John shook his hands like he was telling a ghost story, “Seti’s place, City of the Dead, the whole lot.”

Excitement thrummed in Sherlock’s veins. The thought that the way to a lifelong dream lie within reach in the man before him, so close, was almost too much. He crouched to make himself level with John. “Could you tell me how to get there?”

John’s brow furrowed. “You’re a madman aren’t you?”

Sherlock genuinely smiled at that. “Some would say so.”

John cocked his head, “you really want to know?”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock assured him.

“Really?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “yes.”

John crooked his fingers and motioned that he wanted to whisper something to him. Obligingly, Sherlock leaned closer, his hands clutching the bars just an inch below John’s. When he was just a hairsbreadth away from John’s face John’s hand reached out lightning fast to cup his chin and drag it to his mouth. He kissed Sherlock, hard and desperate for a moment before saying in an angry plea, “then get me the hell out of here!”

Seeing John’s crudeness with Sherlock, the guards beat him across the back once again, several times, with their batons. John moved surprisingly quick, throwing punches and kicks wherever he could land them. His eyes found Sherlock’s once more and he said, “do it, mate!” And then the guards managed to get a hold on him and dragged him back into the building from whence they all came.

Sherlock was stunned.

He found his voice seconds later and turned to find Anderson smirking at the empty space John had just been occupying. He asked, “where are they taking him now?”

“To be hanged,” Anderson replied coolly. “Apparently, he had a very good time.”

 _No. No no no no no no no no_. He could not let his life’s dream slip through his fingers. Not when John - _it_ \- was so close. The answer to everything and they were going to snap it right out of his head and out of existence.

Anderson stalked off to watch the execution of John Watson and Sherlock followed relentlessly. He followed him to a small room high above the courtyard where a gallows was already erected and waiting. Two seats were prepared and Anderson offered Sherlock one. He took it and began his argument for Anderson to free John. “If you release him I will give you one hundred pounds.”

Anderson scoffed and said, “sir, entertainment in this hellhole is few and far between. I would pay one hundred pounds just to see him hang.” The men in the prison clamoured around everywhere they could to watch the spectacle. The noise was immense and overwhelming but Sherlock wouldn’t be cowed. He was on a mission now.

A struggling John Watson was pushed through a door off the side of the courtyard and led up the steps. Sherlock tried again. “Two hundred pounds.”

“Proceed,” Anderson shouted, heedless of Sherlock’s bribes.

The man who secured the rope around John’s neck said something to him. John answered him back and the man, confused, shouted back at Anderson, repeating John’s words in arabic with an obvious question in the tone. Anderson groaned in exasperation and scrubbed his face with his hand for a moment and said, “are you kidding? Of course his last request cannot be to let him go. Are you an idiot?”

The man securing the rope cuffed John on the back of the head for answering with such cheek and Sherlock stifled a giggle at John’s resistance even as he stood on the gallows. _Gallows humor_ , indeed, he mused. He turned to Anderson and upped his price. “Three hundred pounds.”

Anderson held his hand up to stop them from pulling the lever, “hold that a moment!” He turned his head, leering over Sherlock’s form. He leaned over and put a hand on his thigh and said, “you make a very tempting offer.” He swept his eyes over Sherlock’s body appreciatively. It made Sherlock feel slimy and not at all amused. “But I’m also a very lonely man.”

Sherlock slapped his hand away and said sarcastically, “I can’t imagine why.”

Anderson scowled at Sherlock’s refusal and shouted at them in arabic to pull the lever. Panic coursed through Sherlock and he bolted from his chair shouting, “no!”

Too late.

The trap door popped open and John’s body went through and the rope snapped with a sickening sound.

Luckily, John’s neck was more stubborn than Anderson.

Anderson laughed out loud at the unexpected show. “His neck didn’t break! Bad luck for him. Now we get to watch him strangle to death.” He stroked his beard. “Shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes.”

Sherlock could hear John struggling in the rope and he couldn’t bear losing now. Not when he was so close to finding the secrets of Hamunaptra. He played his final card. He quickly whispered to Anderson, “he knows the location of Hamunaptra.”

That got the man’s attention. He looked at him skeptically. “You lie.”

Sherlock mocked affrontary. “I would never!” He absolutely would but Anderson didn’t need to know that.

Anderson pointed at John, whose face was becoming an alarming shade of red. “You mean to tell me that filthy bugger knows the location of Hamunaptra.”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered quickly.

“Truly?”

“Yes!” His eyes snapped to John, whose legs began to lose their fervor. “And if you let him go we will give you ten percent.”

Greedy man he was Anderson haggled. “Fifty percent.”

“Twenty,” Sherlock countered.

“Forty.”

“Thirty,” Sherlock replied hastily.

Not fully hearing Sherlock’s offer, Anderson replied, “twenty five!”

“Aha!” Sherlock said with triumph. “Deal!”

Realizing how much he had lost but in too deep to go back on his word Anderson reluctantly gave the order for John’s release. The executioner took out a very large knife and cut the rope. John went sprawling gracelessly to the ground, the remaining air in his lungs pushed from them and Sherlock could hear him gasping even over the noise of the prisoners cheering and shouting.

He looked out over the courtyard at the man whom he saved and found John’s eyes locked onto him. He felt a shiver run through him but he was unsure of why. Shaking the uncertainty away he turned to Anderson and said, “we leave for Hamunaptra as soon as he’s able to travel. Good day.”

Without waiting for a reply Sherlock left Anderson behind to find Lestrade and John and get out of the repugnant excuse for a prison. Lestrade was still wincing at the bruise on his cheek when Sherlock found him.

“Still whinging,” he asked with a chuckle.

“I’d like to see how you take one of that bloke’s punches. It’s like getting his by a train.”

“He only punched you,” Sherlock countered. “The bastard kissed me.”

“He what? Why on earth would he do that?” He raised an eyebrow at him and asked, “when did he do that?”

“Were you not paying attention? How did you not see it?” Then Sherlock shrugged, honestly puzzled. “And I have no idea why he kissed me. Perhaps we should ask him.”

Lestrade’s eyes crinkled in confusion. “I thought they were executing him?”

“So did I. But I made a deal that you’re definitely not going to like.”

Lestrade groaned and flung an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Tell me later, I’m in enough pain.”

 

///~\\\\\

 

It hadn’t taken them long to collect John from a receiving room inside the prison. The man didn’t have much on him, having been arrested rather quickly. He walked out a free man bringing nothing but the clothing on his back. Sherlock made a cursory look at the man’s neck to asses the damage done and determined it wasn’t life threatening, despite recent circumstances. “You’re going to have quite a bruise there for awhile. Talking, eating and drinking will be difficult. But I think you’ll live.”

“How lucky am I,” John rasped.

“Don’t talk,” Sherlock told him. “Just listen. In a few days a boat heading south on the Nile will leave. If the map we had was correct then the city should be-”

“Hang on a tic,” John interrupted. He cleared his throat painfully, hand clutching the raw skin. “If there’s a map why do you need me?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, “an unforgivable accident involving my brother and an open flame occurred. Stop talking, you’ll just hurt yourself. Now, as I was saying, a boat is heading south on the Nile in a few days and we’re rather eager to be on it. Are you willing to join us, Mister Watson? Just nod if you agree.”

John stayed silent as requested and seemed to think everything over. At length he nodded his head and held out a hand to shake and seal the deal. Sherlock smiled big and bright and shook John’s hand. His hand in Sherlock’s was firm and friendly and it gave the librarian a sense of ease. Like nothing could go wrong with John Watson on the job. He told John of the time and location of the boat and where it would be in harbor and what time to be there. John nodded to convey his understanding and acceptance. He choked out a hoarse, “I’ll be there,” before leaving Sherlock and Lestrade at the prison gates.

Lestrade called after him, “you’ll be fine until then?” All he got was a tired, half hearted wave in response.

“Suppose that’s a yes,” Sherlock said softly. He turned to Lestrade and put his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “This is it Lestrade! Finally! A real life adventure! One that the Bembridge Scholars will have to accept! We’ll have a chance to unearth some of the greatest treasures of the Old Kingdom!” He threw an arm over Lestrade’s shoulder and led him away from the prison. “Come Lestrade! We must make ready! Hamunaptra awaits!”


	4. Chapter 4

Three days later Sherlock and Lestrade made their way to their boat just after eight in the morning. Their luggage was a mixture of their clothes and hastily thrown together equipment they would need for their trek across the desert. They hadn’t enough time to procure a proper team for digging but Sherlock was confident that, once they had found Hamunaptra and were able to accurately chart it, getting funding for a real dig would be no trouble at all.

Giddy with barely contained excitement he listened to Lestrade prattle on about this and that, in a good enough mood that his friend’s mindless chatter didn’t bother him. And then Lestrade asked him a direct question.

“Do you think he’s even going to show? Man like that, I would think would make getting out of Egypt top priority.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I believe he will show. He’s a former military man. A man with slightly less than strict morals but a sense of honor, nonetheless, when it comes right down to it. Entirely trustworthy.” He frowned slightly, remembering the unasked for kiss and amended, “however, he’s an absolutely filthy, rude and complete scoundrel. So I can with certainty say I’m not fond of him one bit.” Which was a complete lie. He had spent every moment of the last few days that wasn’t focused on their adventure puzzling over John. The man who had seemed so cocky from behind a jail cell despite his impending execution. A man who seemed entirely unafraid despite the danger he endured and would continue to endure. A man who saw what he wanted and took it without asking. And he was, shamefully admitted only to himself, intrigued beyond belief.

“Filthy, rude and a complete scoundrel,” a voice from behind him sounded. “Anyone that I know?”

Sherlock rounded on the voice prepared to tell the owner that it was absolutely none of their beeswax only to have his scolding stick in his throat.

Before him stood a completely new John Watson. One that was clean shaven with a smart haircut and clean clothes. But he still had the same cocky smile that made Sherlock want to either slap him or kiss him. And wasn’t that a revelation.

Rather than answer the question he just nodded in greeting and said, “good morning, Mister Watson.”

“Ready for our grand adventure, mate,” Lestrade asked him, patting him good naturedly on the shoulder.

“Should I be checking my pockets again,” John asked him, half joking half serious.

Lestrade laughed nervously. “No, no, I don’t steal from a partner,” he assured him.

“Hmph, indeed,” John replied dubiously.

Despite his appearance as he agreed and Sherlock’s insistence that John was truthful, Sherlock needed to assure himself about John’s sincerity before they embarked on a quest in the desert. He held John in a stern stare and said, “I’m hoping that this is not just some sort of a clever rouse to get out of prison. Because if it is I’m warning you, Mister Watson-”

“You’re warning me,” John chuckled. He tilted his head back, sucking in a breath, ready to deliver a response. “Look at it this way: my whole damn garrison believed in this city so much that without orders they marched through Libya and into Egypt, into that blasted desert, to find it.” He stepped close enough to Sherlock that the tips of their shoes touched. He leaned in and said in all seriousness, “and when we got there what we found was sand and blood.”

He straightened and replaced his happy, cocky smile on his face and said. “What are we waiting for? Shall we?”

And up the ramp he went, leaving behind a silent and gaping Sherlock and Lestrade.

John’s closeness, his intensity, the memory of their one kiss still fresh in his mind; it all combined to make him flush with excitement and nerves. He stared after the figure John Watson cut as he made his way onto the ship.

Lestrade must have noticed his more than curious stare and nudged him cheerfully with his shoulder. “You’re right. Filthy, rude, complete scoundrel. Can’t imagine what there is to see in him at all.” Sherlock turned a skeptical eye on his friend and they both burst into laughter, gathering their bags. 

They took one step forward only to be greeted by the last person, aside from Mycroft, that Sherlock wanted to see. “Good morning to you gents.” 

Sherlock groaned internally and fixed Anderson with an unamused scowl. “What are you doing here?” 

Making his way up the ramp of the boat he told Sherlock, “protecting my investment. See you on board!”

“He can’t be serious,” Lestrade said, grimacing. 

“Apparently he is.” He suddenly had a horribly uncharitable idea. “Perhaps we can lose him in the desert. He’ll make excellent pickings for the vultures.” 

Lestrade laughed and punched his arm gently, “you’re a terrible person.” Shaking his head, still laughing, he grabbed his bags and mounted the ramp to the boat with Sherlock not far behind. 

 

///~\\\\\

 

After checking in with the crew the small troupe was shown to their rooms. Sherlock and Lestrade were shown to a shared suite and John was given a single room as was Anderson. Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon pouring over his notes and books about the legends he had studied since childhood. People would think him ridiculous for traipsing across the desert with a trunk full of books but he knew how important these were to accurately deciphering and cataloguing all that there were to find in the City of the Dead. 

Lestrade spent little time in their suite, taking only the most cursory amount of time to lay out his things needed for the night and the next day, as they would be entering their port the next afternoon, and then taking off to find entertainment elsewhere. Sherlock ignored him for the most part, having also done his very brief unpacking of necessities before settling in to read up on his notes. 

He already knew them by heart, of course. They all were tucked neatly inside his mind palace, a whole separate temple dedicated to the knowledge of Egypt and all his obsessions that came with it. But having the physical notes in his hands grounded him and helped him focus on the things he meant to. Kept him from straying to a certain rugged blond who was most assuredly not invited into his thoughts willingly. 

At the most inopportune moments, the picture of John Watson would flit into his mind. Most notably, the still fresh and new image of him all cleaned up and presentable. He wondered, several times throughout the day, what it would feel like to kiss him now that his beard was gone. He gave up on his notes after hours of peering at them when the bell rang for dinner. Hoping to find some distraction he snatched up a volume on chemistry, yet another favored study of his, and walked towards the dining hall to grab a bite to eat. As much as he didn’t enjoy the idea of eating with a crowd, not to mention the whole process of eating, he knew that putting fuel in his body was paramount to keep him in top shape for the harsh conditions ahead. Not to mention that times to stop and eat would be few while they trekked across the desert. Better to take advantage while the getting was good. 

He found Lestrade at a table eating the spicy goat stew that was to be their dinner. After procuring his own plate he sat down with him and let him go on about his afternoon. Apparently a rowdy group of American explorers were also making for Hamunaptra and Lestrade had spent the afternoon chatting away with them. 

“Playing a bit of poker later tonight with them,” he mentioned between bites. “You should join us, get out of the room. Enjoy the fresh, Nile air.” 

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock determined. “I’ll not be gambling. We have little enough funds as it is.” Then he thought about the cool night breeze and the thought of an evening spent on the deck wouldn’t go amiss. He scanned the small mess looking for John and frowned when the man didn’t make an appearance. After finishing his plate he bid Lestrade good evening and assured him that he would see him in their rooms later that evening. 

 

///~\\\\\

 

John spent the better part of the day on his cot enjoying the first real bed he’d lain on in months. The stone slab covered in hay back at the prison and the various mothy cots he had slept in for months prior were not conducive to restful sleep. The small cabin bunk felt like a king sized, feather bed to John compared to what he had been sleeping on. As soon as he entered his room he dropped his bags and fell face first onto the soft cotton mattress and promptly fell asleep. 

He had spent his first couple days out of prison doing exactly the thing that put him there in the first place; weasling people out of their money for his own personal gain.  He wasn’t proud of it but he needed money and if drunken fools wanted to play poker with a card shark then who was he to complain? The poor sods had practically handed over their checkbooks. All he need do was smile, act charming, lose a hand or two to keep the act up, and look surprised at his good fortune. 

It wasn’t hard to count cards and with one night of nonstop gambling, moving from one bar to another until well into the next morning, he had enough to make himself presentable again. First thing he did was get himself a haircut and a shave as well as a bath at the bath house. Being free from his own stench and the scraggly mane he had grown was enough to make him giddy with relished pleasure. But he went several steps further and replaced the rags he had left the prison with, opting for the smart looking modern clothing that everyone in Cairo seemed to own in conjunction with clothes that would fare well under the desert sun. 

Lastly, he made sure to pack enough ammo to blow anyone straight to heaven or hell or wherever people go when they die. The images of the men on the cliff when he stumbled away from that accursed city, the bloodsoaked sand, and the legend of the curses echoing in his mind were all enough to put him on edge. This time he would be ready for anything. 

After hours of sleep John woke to a dry mouth and growling stomach. He washed his face with the complementary water that his room was provided and went off in search of dinner. He reached the mess in time to get the last of the dinner available and tucked in gratefully. Afterwards he wandered in search of his newfound friends to see if they were interested in a pint and bit of conversation.

Instead he found Lestrade at a poker game.

“Oi! Watson! Come join us,” Lestrade called, waving to him. He introduced him to the small group of three Americans he had been playing with.

“Watson, care to join us,” the one named Burnes asked.

John smiled, he knew the game wouldn’t be a fair one if he played. He shook his head, “I only gamble with my life, never my money.” 

“Really,” the one named Davis said. “What about a wager of five hundred American dollars that says we’ll get to Hamunaptra before you do.” 

John clenched his jaw. “You’re looking for Hamunaptra?” 

“That’s right,” Davis replied confidently.

“And who says we are,” he asked. 

All three men pointed at Lestrade and said, “he does.” 

The knowledge that their destination was made public didn’t sit well with John. He briefly thought about warning them of the dangers, how they may never return home with their prizes from strange lands. But he was plunging into the desert in search of the cursed city, himself. To tell grown men their business, to warn them off what he himself was about to do seemed hypocritical. He hadn’t planned on blabbing their plans to everyone to hear and wished Lestrade had had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. The city was dangerous and dangerous people tended to flock towards it. He wondered how long before trouble would follow them there. 

Not wanting to seem like anything was off, that anything was less than light and happy, he levelled his eyes at Davis and then gave him a small smile. “Okay, bet’s on.” 

Cheers all around the table sounded, the American’s slapping hands and laughing, drunk on adventure and thin Egyptian beer. 

From a table just off to the side of the gamblers a decidedly predatory, oily voice asked, “and what makes you so confident in your search, Mister Watson?”

John eyed the man, not liking what he saw. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“Moriarty,” he said with a smile. “James Moriarty, Chief Egyptologist on these good men’s endeavor.” 

“Right,” John said. “What makes you so confident,” he asked without answering his question. 

The man named Henderson said, “we got us a man who’s actually been there.” 

John and Lestrade shared a look and both agreed that even though their destination was known there was no reason to advertise John’s knowledge. It would only invite more questions and unease. John smiled at the table, pat Lestrade on the back and said, “and on that note, I’m going to bid you all good evening.” He looked sharply at Lestrade, silently warning him to keep his mouth shut. If Lestrade’s face was anything to go on, the point was effectively put across.

But instead of going to bed he decided to take inventory. He should have done it in his room but the nice weather was too good not to take advantage of it. So, resigning himself to the knowledge that questionable folk knew and shared their destination, John slung his duffel over his back and went off in search of a quiet corner on the deck. 

 

///~\\\\\

 

Sherlock found a quiet table to sit and read near the onboard stables. He propped his feet on the chair across from him to discourage any other passengers from becoming too chummy then cracked the book open and set to reading. So lost in the world of chemistry as he was, he never heard the sound of footsteps behind him. He only heard the loud thump of a duffle dropping onto the table in front of him.

At the sound he jumped but, with great willpower, he managed to stifle a scream in his throat. 

John’s grinning face greeted him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he said as he unzipped the duffel. 

Sherlock scoffed. “Didn’t startle me.” He added a proper sneer for good measure.

John huffed a quick laugh. “Could have fooled me.”  Sherlock scowled at him and John asked, “still upset about that kiss?” 

Sherlock shrugged, slotting a finger into his book to mark his page before answering. He sniffed haughtily and said, “if you call _that_ a kiss.” 

John smiled a crooked grin and said, “right.” He ripped open the flaps of the duffel, exposing the arsenal he’d brought with him. Sherlock’s eyes went wide and his fingertips brushed aside the sides to get a better look. 

“While I appreciate the prudence of being prepared, Mister Watson,” he said while perusing the weaponry, “but did I miss something? Are we entering a warzone rather than an archeological site?”

John’s eyes were deeply serious as he looked at Sherlock, mindlessly reaching for a gun to begin cleaning it. “Not only is there a group of rowdy, hotshot Americans joining us on this endeavor, but there are also the Tuaregs and the Bedouins to consider.” He snapped something out of place on the gun and added, “and there’s something underneath the sand out there. Something I don’t like.”

“You mean other than the giant, ancient city of ruins?” Sherlock folded a corner of the page of the book in his hands before dropping it to the table. He crossed his arms and leaned back and said, “I’m looking for something in particular out there.” 

“You mean mummies and crumbling hieroglyphics aren’t enough for you?” 

“I’m looking for a book, actually. The book of Amun Ra, it contains all sorts of fascinating incantations from the Old Kingdom. It’s what first interested me in Egypt when I was a child.” He smiled and added, “well, that and my parents’ nonstop adventures to the "mysterious" country. The book’s only part of why I came to Egypt to study.”  Sherlock had no idea why he was telling John any of past or his endeavors. The man in all likelihood didn’t care a whit for Sherlock or his life’s work and dreams. Taking Sherlock and Lestrade to Hamunaptra probably filled some sense of obligation. After all, Sherlock was the one to spring him from prison in the first place.

But still, he hadn’t been able to stop the rush of words that had flowed from his mouth.

“And the fact that the book is rumored to be made entirely of gold makes no difference to you,” John said absentmindedly while he cleaned his gun. 

Surprised that someone not as familiar with the legends or the histories would know such a thing, Sherlock gave him his due credit. “I’m pleased to find you know your history.” 

John shook his head, grin still plastered on his face, “nah, I just know my treasure.” 

“Same thing, depending on who you ask,” Sherlock retorted.  Knowing they were alone and they might not get another chance to be so in the future, Sherlock gathered the courage to ask John the question that had plagued him for days. He licked his dry lips and asked him, “out of curiosity, might I ask you something?” 

Replacing the cleaned gun in the duffel and reaching for another John replied, “if you like.” 

Softly, unsure of the answer he would receive, Sherlock asked him, “why did you kiss me?”

John’s eyes moved from the gun in his hands to Sherlock’s face. They swept over his features, pausing once at his lips, until they came to rest in Sherlock’s eyes. Then he shrugged and said, “I was about to be hanged, seemed as good a time as any to get a farewell snog.” 

That was not an answer that Sherlock liked but one he should have anticipated. Scrunching his nose up and heart fallen to his stomach he grabbed his book and stalked off. “Goodnight, Mister Watson,” he called over his shoulder before disappearing inside the ship. 

 

///~\\\\\

 

The question was one he had been preparing for. But what John didn’t expect was the soft, insecure way Sherlock would ask it. It seemed as if he were somewhere between curious, scared, and hopeful. He looked over him, remembering what those soft lips felt like against his chapped ones. As much as he would enjoy getting a leg over with Sherlock he wasn’t sure what Sherlock wanted and his decisions hadn’t been leading him to any greener pastures in recent history. So he answered him in a way that would leave no room for hope on either of their parts. 

Watching him get angry and leave in a huff made John want to follow him and soothe his fiery retreat. Sherlock was as interesting a person as John had ever come across and he wanted to know more. His amusement with John’s dark humor, his coolness when dealing with Anderson (what little he was able to observe before he dropped through a hole in the floor seemed cool to him, at any rate), his flustered, shocked face after he had kissed him all made him hungry to learn more. He wanted everything from him and feelings like that could get yourself killed if you weren’t careful. He sighed deeply, dropping the gun into the duffel and scowling. He stared into the duffel without really seeing until a noise from behind a cargo rack alerted him to the presence of another person lurking nearby. Silently, he got up from the table and walked over to the cargo rack and reached in quick as a cat to grab at the person who had been listening to their conversation. 

A yelp erupted from the person when John pulled him out. Unexpectedly, an old face greeted him. “Oh, Watson! Thank goodness you’re alive!” He put on a solemn face and said, “I was very worried about you.”

“Well if it isn’t my little buddy Beni,” John said, dislike and anger rising in his chest. “The man who left me to die along with the rest of our ‘friends’.” He pursed his lips and tapped the forefinger of his free hand against them. “Wonder what you’re doing here.” 

He made a move to punch him and Beni flinched, throwing his hands up in front of his face. “Please! I’m too pretty to have a broken nose!”

John’s face crinkled in disgust and he squinted at him, “Beni, you’ve never been pretty.” 

Beni pouted, “some day I might be.” 

John shook him, “shut. It.” Then the pieces fell into place. “You’re leading the American’s to Hamunaptra aren’t you? So what’s the scam, Beni? You take them out to the middle of the desert and then leave them to rot? That’s low, even for you.” 

Beni looked affronted at the accusation but reluctantly admitted, “unfortunately not. These American’s are smart. They pay me half now and half when I get them back to Cairo so this time I must go all the way.”

“Tough break,” John said sarcastically. He unfisted his hands from Beni’s shirt and moved to leave, unable to stand the sight of him. 

Beni’s voice stopped him with a question, “you never believed in Hamunaptra, John. You survived the battle only to go back? Why?” 

John saw no harm in answering truthfully so he told him. “That man who was sitting with me sprung me from prison.” He rubbed his still bruised neck and smiled unconsciously. “He saved my neck. I’m repaying the kindness.”

“Not much of a kindness,” he said seriously and John quite agreed with him. But then Beni chuckled. “You always did have more balls than brains.”

The subtle dig against his intelligence and the not so subtle attempt at friendliness grated on John. But instead of getting outwardly angry he just laughed along with him, throwing an arm over Beni’s shoulders to draw him close. He walked with him towards the railing of the deck and said, “goodbye Beni,” and threw him overboard. 

_The Americans would be better off not going to Hamunaptra and the world would be better off without Beni, he thought. Let the crocodiles sort him out._

Beni’s frantic voice and splashing called out from the water for help. John didn’t stick around to see if anyone would heed the call. Instead, he walked back to his duffel to collect his things and turn in for the night. When he reached the table he saw something that disturbed him to the core; large, wet footprints leading directly towards Sherlock’s suite. John zipped up the duffel and took off in their direction, danger singing in his veins.

 

///~\\\\\

 

Once back he was back in his suite Sherlock made himself ready for bed. He tugged on a pair of blue striped pajamas and followed it with a light, blue silk dressing gown. But he couldn’t make his mind ready for sleep. The conversation, the infuriating answer John had given him, the kiss they had, all of it still whirled in his mind. He tried to distract himself by reading his chemistry book and pacing, trying to wear himself out.

But as he recited the facts he knew from the book, his steps slowed and became uneven and his thoughts drifted back to John. He finally grew fed up with himself and slammed the book down before throwing himself on the bed. “God! It wasn’t even that good of a kiss,” he pouted to the empty room. 

It was useless pining after a man who clearly had no interest in pursuing anything with him. And a criminal, as well. The thought that John was a potentially dangerous man shouldn’t make his heart race with excitement as much as it did. Resolving to push John Watson out of his head, he flung an arm over his eyes and tried to relax. 

A few minutes later the door to his suite softly opened and closed. Without removing his arm he asked, “didn’t lose your shirt at the poker game, did you?” Then, rather abruptly, something sharp appeared at his throat. Remain calm. “Ah, not Lestrade then.” 

“Where is it,” a growling, angry voice asked him.

“Care to be specific,” Sherlock asked, not daring to move an inch for fear of startling the intruder.

“The map!” The man moved the implement from his neck and dragged him up so that he was standing upright. “Where is the map?”  His eyes now uncovered Sherlock took a look and memorized the man’s face instantly, scars and tattoos and all. He was dressed in black desert robes and looked as if he had spent his whole life under the sun and in combat. Not a man to trifle with. 

There was nothing for it, he’d have to give up the map. 

Sherlock had already memorized the map so using it to find their way was unnecessary. He would sincerely miss the artifact as he hoped to make it his first contribution to the museum once the dig was over. But losing the map would be a fair trade for his life, there would always be other artifacts. He pointed to the table and said, “if you had bothered to look you’d see it was on the table.” He pointed to where it laid unfolded on the table.

“And the key,” the man insisted, putting a curved, sharpened hook to Sherlock’s cheek and pressing in. “Where is the key?” 

Sherlock’s mind went blank. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he answered honestly. 

“Do not play dumb with me,” the man nearly shouted. “Where is the key?” 

John burst through the door at that moment shouting his name, “Sherlock!” 

The man with the hook shoved Sherlock in front of him but kept the blade pressed close to his cheek, one hand securing him around the waist. Sherlock stood ramrod straight, his eyes flitting across the room to try and find a way out. His eyes fell on the candle on the table and a plan began forming. But wasn’t sure what John had in mind. 

And so he waited.

“Let him go,” John warned. 

“Not without the key,” the man insisted.

“There’s no key here,” John told him. “Now let him go and bugger off before I put a bullet between your eyes.” 

The man jostled Sherlock for emphasis, “I’d like to see you try with your friend in the way.” 

The man’s grip loosened for a second, the hook moved a fraction of an inch with the distraction of his assailant, and that was all Sherlock needed to reach for the candlestick. His hand shot out, clenched around the smooth metal and jammed it backwards so the flame landed directly in the man’s eye. The man screamed and immediately let Sherlock go. He stumbled backwards and knocked a lantern off the wall, setting the couch on fire. Sherlock bolted from the room with John at his heels before the realization dawned on him.

“Oh no, we forgot the map!” He tried to run back to retrieve it and the little box it came in when John’s arm grabbed him and hauled him away from the burning room. 

“Relax, I’m the map.” He tapped his head, “it’s all up here.” 

“How very comforting,” Sherlock said sarcastically as he was pulled along. He was incredibly angry at losing his first two artifacts but once again resigned himself to their loss. He knew they didn’t have long before the whole boat would be engulfed in flames. They needed to get offboard and fast. 

They stepped out onto the deck to a litany of gunfire and shouting. John stopped them in the doorway and handed Sherlock his duffel. “Hold this, please,” he said, reaching to his pocket to retrieve rounds to load his gun. 

“You threatened an armed man with an empty gun,” Sherlock shouted even though he was impressed by John’s resolve.

“He didn’t need to know it wasn’t loaded,” John defended. 

“And why wasn’t it,” Sherlock asked, astonished and upset. 

“That’s just bad gun safety, packing away guns fully loaded” John answered, unperturbed by the anarchy surrounding them. 

John’s back pressed to the wall, loading his gun with quick fingers while Sherlock looked around. Bullet holes appeared on the farthest end of the wall on which they leaned, each one inching closer and closer until Sherlock had to jerk John’s head away before one landed right where he was standing. John stiffened when he was jerked aside but then he took one look at the hole where his head had been and muttered a thanks.

Everywhere there were men dressed in the same black robes Sherlock’s assailant had donned and they were shouting, shooting and killing indiscriminately. John picked off a couple easily, their bodies dropping to the deck with a heavy thump. The air grew hot as the fire raged inside and started working its way out towards the deck. Horses screamed, camels bellowed in a panic, and people began flinging themselves overboard to swim to shore. 

John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and ran to the railing and asked Sherlock, “can you swim?” He took his duffel from him and swung it over his back. 

“Of course I can swim if the occasion calls for it!” 

“Trust me,” he said, scooping Sherlock up and tossing him over the railing, “it calls for it.” 

Sherlock wanted to shout _I’m perfectly capable of jumping overboard myself, ta!_ but all he had time for was a deep breath before his body hit the water. The sharp coldness of the water stung him and made him seize for a second as he floated towards the surface. 

Seconds later John had joined him in the drink, sputtering when he came to the surface, followed by Anderson. 

Sherlock cuffed John on the back of the head and shouted “idiot” before taking a quick look around. “Where’s Lestrade?”

“How would I know? And _OW_ ,” John replied, rubbing his head. He shoved Sherlock towards the shore. “We’ll find him on shore, get swimming.” 

They were just dragging themselves out of the water when they turned back to find Lestrade struggling to stay afloat. Sherlock plunged back in to drag his friend to safety, both of them ending up on the sand panting. Sherlock was angry beyond belief. He ticked off on his fingers, “so we’re still _several_ miles from where we need to be, we’ve lost all the tools, all the equipment, the bloody map-” 

“Didn’t lose this though,” Lestrade said, holding up the box it came in. 

Sherlock bolted upright and snatched it from him. “How did you get this!”

“Went to our room looking for you and found a man on fire, screaming and waving a hook around. Grabbed it and booked it before he could catch on that I was there.” 

“Lestrade, you’re brilliant!” Sherlock hugged him and barked a short laugh at the small turn of luck. 

“Did anyone else catch that? Cause I don’t think I heard it quite right.” 

“Oh shut up,” he said, shoving him away. He turned to John and asked, “well, fearless leader, where do we go from here?” 

John opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted with shouting from across the river.

“Hey! Watson! Looks to me like I got all the horses!” 

John walked to the edge of the water and shouted back, “hey Beni! Looks to me like you’re on the wrong side of the river!” 

Sherlock snickered at that and John flashed him a smile. His stomach flipped in his chest and Sherlock found he couldn’t be too upset as long as John kept smiling at him like that. He was so screwed, in so many ways, but he couldn’t seem to care. 

John answered Sherlock’s question after a long stare between them. “Next we walk to town. Recollect.” He pointed to Sherlock’s pajamas. “Maybe buy another set of clothes.” 

Sherlock couldn’t do anything other than laugh. Before long all four men were laughing hysterically and, completely soaked, made their way towards the nearest town.


	5. Chapter 5

They reached the nearest town shortly after dawn. Not much more than a few livestock merchants and some tents, which is more than they themselves had managed to retain. All night they had trudged through along the banks of the Nile, cursing their wet, sand-grit trousers for the chaffing they caused and the terrain for their sore feet. Most unfortunate was Sherlock’s lack of shoes and he was wishing more and more with every step that John had actually had a loaded gun and shot his assailant. If it weren’t for the desert dwelling prick or the fire he had caused, Sherlock wouldn’t be suffering like a devotional on a pilgrimage. He scowled down at his aching, scraped feet as he walked and looking forward to replacing his sodden clothes.

If they were lucky and any of their luggage survived the fire, likely the ones that were stored far from the center of the boat where the fire was mostly contained, it would be delivered to the hotel they had booked for their stay in their intended city and they could collect it in the future. The highpoint of the day was discovering that John and Lestrade managed to retain their wallets and checkbooks and that a few pounds went farther than they expected. Even still, since they had nothing to barter and they were already low on funds, they were hoping to get by cheaply.

Together they came up with a list of absolute essentials that included camels, water and food, tents needed for shelter, and a few other odds and ends. Sherlock, at the very least, needed a change of outfit and a pair of shoes at once and while the other two men searched for their necessities Sherlock went to replace their lost wardrobes.

While he opted to keep his pajamas, Sherlock did manage to barter his silk dressing gown to cover some of the expense of sorely needed new clothes. He chose black linen robes for the convenience of cleanliness. Simple fact was that white, while cooler in the sun, would attract more dirt. Sherlock detested looking unkempt and so black it would have to be. Heat never bothered him much anyway, and the black would keep the sunlight from reflecting onto his skin and burning him. He followed them up with a pair of soft leather boots for his poor, abused feet. After dressing himself, he managed to buy a few more essential items of clothing for all of them, even if they were all the flowy things that were more at home on the Bedouin nomads than on Brits. Gathering his purchases he exited the market tent to find Lestrade arguing with a camel merchant.

“Four! I only want four not the whole bloody herd!”

“Would you just pay the man,” John shouted, exasperated.

Lestrade slapped a few notes into the man’s hand, grumbling, “I can’t believe the price of these fleabags.” He shot the merchant a dirty look and asked him sarcastically, “happy now?”

John chuckled and took two of the camels and together the two men led the camels away from the herd. Sherlock walked towards them, carrying his purchases close to his chest. John’s reaction to his new look was immediate. He stopped in his tracks and looked him over, taking in the new sight. While John was still gaping Lestrade came over and thrust one of the reins into Sherlock’s hands.

“Nice outfit,” Lestrade said sincerely. “Stow that and let’s get going before this town decides to take all our money.”

Sherlock handed him the packet of clothes he had procured for him and shoved his own in his camel’s side pouch. Inside he found a couple water skins and some food. Not much, but it would last until they reached the next town and they set off for real. Reins in hand he walked over to where John was still staring and held out the clothes he had bought for him. “I hope these are to your liking.”

John nodded slowly. He licked his dry lips once before taking the packet and said his thanks. “How do you know these will fit,” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged, “seems like everything here is pretty loose on sizing standards. I’m sure the shirts, at least will fit.”

“Right.” John was still staring until he finally seemed to mentally shake himself and gesture for Sherlock to mount his camel. “Time to get a move on. Several hours of riding before we get to the next town.”

“Then the open desert,” Sherlock said full of excitement.

John’s eyes gleamed. “Yeah, then the desert.”

 

///~\\\\\

 

They reached the next town just as dusk settled and decided to spend the next day gathering their final supplies for their long trek into the desert. They found the hotel they had originally planned on and were pleased to find that a couple of their trunks had made it. Not much more than some books and equipment but it was something and the little group was glad for it.

Out of necessity, they rummaged for better clothing, repacked some equipment to bring with on the camels and John cleaned his guns. Their brief dip in the Nile followed by a whole day getting covered in sand was a recipe for inefficient firearms and that would certainly get them killed if it came down to a firefight. It was a recipe for disaster and one that John desperately hoped to avoid.

The day after, fully rested and fed and watered, the quartet set out into the desert before dawn while the temperature was still cool. All during their stay they had seen no sign of Beni or the Americans and that suited them just fine. They didn’t feel like having the extra hubbub that always came with rival traveling companies.

John hadn’t told them just how far they were to travel. Instead he just ensured that their provisions were sufficient and told them they would get there when they got there. They had no idea where their American friends were in their journey so rather than stop to sleep they journeyed through the first night. Lestrade and Anderson fell asleep in their saddles but Sherlock and John were wide awake and, with John in the lead, the camels plodded along on the path John set them to.

More than once Lestrade nearly slipped off his camel and Sherlock would nudge him gently enough to alert him to it. Lestrade would shift, straighten up and blink awake for a few minutes before drifting off again. The man was a light sleeper and clearly miserable with the ride but wasn’t about to complain. Anderson, however, seemed right at home on his camel. He sat heavily in the saddle and snored loudly with his head nuzzled into the camel’s neck and mouth open. The camel didn’t seem to mind but the sound began to grate on all their nerves. John grit his teeth and tried to ignore it but Sherlock eventually snapped and slapped him with his riding crop to wake him.

The snoring abruptly stopped and the man jolted awake so hard he nearly fell off his camel. Clutching tight to the pommel he asked in a panic, “what in God’s name was that?”

Sherlock smirked and said, “must have been a horsefly.”

John chuckled softly to himself while Lestrade and Sherlock shared a conspiratorial smirk. Soon after being awoken Anderson drifted off to sleep again, hugging the neck of his camel.

The second day of their journey saw them all with saddle sores and aching for a stretch. About midday they stumbled upon a small oasis. It was nothing more than a few shrubs and a clean spring of fresh water but to them it was a welcome sight. They stiffly dropped off their camels with a symphony of groaning and cracking spines. While the camels drank their fill the group stretched their limbs and dug in their packs for a light meal.

The sun was hot overhead and they all were desperate to shed a layer or two but the danger of being burned kept their clothes on. And with the terrain too hot to sit on they all resorted to standing while they ate. The camels took advantage of the stop to sit and close their eyes for a well deserved rest. John, following their example, allowed himself to slip into a light doze as well. The shade from his camel’s shadow cooled a patch of the ground so he took advantage and cuddled right up to the beast, making himself comfortable against its bulk. He was exhausted from their all day and all night trek across the sand and soon found it easy to find sleep.

When he awoke he found himself in a dimmer light than expected and jolted with purpose, thinking he had slept the day away. Across from him he saw Sherlock and Lestrade asleep, leaning against each other and Sherlock’s camel while they dozed. Then his eyes drifted upwards to find there had been a black cloth, one John recognized as the swath of clothing Sherlock had used to cover his head, stretched out over his camel and across to Sherlock’s camel. A makeshift awning to shield them from the midday sun. John stretched and climbed out from beneath the cloth, patting his camel affectionately before he stood, to see what Anderson was up to before he roused the other two. Anderson was the only one of them who had slept well the night before and so had not opted to kip with the rest of them. Instead, John found him sitting on his jacket with his toes dipped into the cool spring.

By the position of the sun, John estimated they had rested around three hours. He took advantage of the spring and made sure everyone’s water skins were full to bursting. They still had a long way to go so once he was finished packing away the water he told Anderson to make himself ready while he woke the other two. He climbed back under the cloth and crouched in front of Sherlock. The sight of him, slack-faced and sleep sweet with errant curls in his face, made John lose his breath. He was truly beautiful with his lashes splayed out over the swell of his cheeks and his mouth parted in sleep. John licked his lips to wet them, wishing suddenly he could wake him with a kiss. Rather than give into his selfish impulses he settled for cupping Sherlock’s cheek and whispering him awake.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, his rough fingers caressing the softness of Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock’s nose scrunched, uninterested in waking, and he groaned before his eyes fluttered open. He then registered John’s hand on his face and his hand came to rest atop John’s and his eyes flicked over to his. “What,” he asked softly.

“Time to get going,” John said simply. Loathing the detachment, he slipped his hand from under Sherlock’s and moved to leave. Before exiting the makeshift tent he smiled at him, pointing to the cloth and saying, “rather clever, that.”

Sherlock smiled sheepishly, averting his eyes. “Was simple really.”

“Well, thank you anyway,” John insisted before leaving the bubble of intimacy. He stood, stamping his feet to ensure his legs weren’t going to cramp while they rode. A minute later and there were sounds of shuffling and a thump as something hit the ground under the tent.

Sherlock appeared beside him, brushing the dirt off his clothes, while Lestrade groaned out, “what the fuck, Sherlock? S’no way to wake a man.”

“Time to go, Lestrade,” was all he said in reply before digging into his pack to take a sip of water.

In a matter of minutes everyone had saddled up and they were once again making their way across the sand dunes towards Hamunaptra.

Still grumpy from his rude awakening Lestrade griped, “can’t understand why we went with camels. They’re smelly, they bite, they spit. Disgusting creatures.” He scratched his camel’s neck affectionately, not really meaning a word of it.

Sherlock smiled, “I think they’re rather fascinating. Their stamina, metabolism, their roles in nomadic society.” He leaned over to whisper in the camel’s ear loud enough that John could inadvertently hear him, “and don’t let on but I think you lot are actually adorable.”

He scritched the camel’s head before straightening in the saddle once more. John had to agree with Sherlock on every front. Having become more than uncomfortably familiar with camels while in Egypt, he had grown rather fond of them. He had ridden on them, slept beside them, even eaten them with a band of Bedouins. Aside from their frankly disgusting mating habits, John found he actually enjoyed them. Wanting to join the conversation he said amicably, “I’ve named mine Charlie.”

Anderson walked to stand beside him and said, “that’s quite a normal name for an animal.”

He turned to Anderson and asked, “and what would you name a camel?”

Anderson shrugged. “I don’t know. Sandy?” He looked down at his dusty mount and added, “seems rather appropriate.”

“And yet you question John’s camel’s name,” Sherlock piped in from behind them.

Anderson turned in his saddle and asked, “okay smart guy. What’d you name your camel, then?”

“Salih,” Sherlock answered neatly and without explanation. After some urging Sherlock explained the reference to the Qu’ran, the story of a camel goddess, and the prophet from whom Sherlock took the name.

Amused at the depth of Sherlock’s seeming endless knowledge John nudged Lestrade and asked the inevitable question. “Right, then. What’d you name your camel?”

Lestrade smirked at him and said, “Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s surprising laughter had John turning in his saddle to see tears peaking up from Sherlock’s eyes with the force of his glee. He clutched at his stomach and the pommel of his saddle, laughing until he was sucking in lungfuls of air. After the fit had passed he remarked to Lestrade that he would never get the image of a camel wearing a three piece suit and sporting a top hat and umbrella out of his head.

The admission had them both laughing in hysterics again and John couldn’t help but smile. He wasn’t sure who Mycroft was, nor what a three piece suit and an umbrella had to do with the man, but clearly it was an acquaintance that they both knew. One that was clearly an unfavorable one as they found the comparison to a camel hilarious.

Night inevitably fell and, once again, Anderson fell asleep comfortably in his saddle. Lestrade took up his uneasy and light dozing, slipping in the saddle every now and then. Unlike the previous night, Sherlock also began to doze. It started slowly, with a yawn and a stiff stretch of his arms. Then soft snuffling as Sherlock shifted in his saddle trying to get comfy. Then eventually his eyes slipped closed and he was breathing softly, sleeping peacefully.

John felt the exhaustion with two days of constant riding acutely. With no one to share his vigil he felt his eyes start to fail him and slip closed. But then the presence of a weight on his shoulder alerted him instantly awake. Sherlock’s camel had sidled up next to his and its movements had caused Sherlock to shift, slipping to his side. Lucky for him John’s shoulder was there to catch him.

And he had slept through it.

John looked down to see Sherlock’s softened face. He could feel the gentle passes of breath from his mouth as they ghosted over his shoulder. He instinctively nuzzled John’s shoulder and it seemed like the easiest thing in the world for John to reach over and brush the hair away from his face. They couldn’t stay like that for long so, reluctantly, he shuffled Sherlock so he was more or less upright in his saddle.

In an attempt to keep himself awake, John scanned the desert in front of him. They were approaching the cliffs that signalled to him their nearness to their destination. As they rode closer a cluster atop the cliffs drew his attention. He felt a shiver crawl down his spine as he remembered the men who watched him scuttle into the desert three years ago. What if these were the same men? What if they were unhappy with his return? Would they attack? Would they stand by to see what happened as groups of explorers descended on the ancient city? Were they just a mirage?

Trying, unsuccessfully, to convince himself that it was just a trick of his sleep deprived brain, he shook himself and slapped his cheeks a couple of times. He began to hum a half remembered tune to keep himself awake until his companions awoke. One by one they each roused, yawning and groaning and John told them they wouldn’t have to ride much further. They were nearing their destination.

The expanse in front of them looked empty but John knew better. Just before dawn he pulled up and stopped at the foot of a large valley.

Anderson asked, “what’re we stopping for?”

“We’re waiting,” he replied quietly, now on full alert.

Off in the distance, on the other side of the valley, a large group came towards them and the quartet watched as it got closer. After a few minutes John picked out Beni at the front of the group and grimaced. He had hoped to beat them by several hours. Had actually hoped that Beni had turned coward and failed to lead them to the city in general.

The sun’s light was just peaking up over the horizon when Beni and Moriarty pulled themselves up on their own camels next to John. John made no move to greet them as he scanned the band of men. A quick count showed twenty men and their horses, including the five they already knew, each mount packed full of equipment. Most of them were arab men who had been employed to do the heavy lifting.

Beni was the first of them to speak, “good morning my friends.”

“I don’t see no ruins,” Davis said.

Beni looked back at him and said, “patience, my good man. All in good time.

” John, eyes straight ahead at the coming sun, said to Sherlock, “get ready to run.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at that. “Why?”

“We’re about to be shown the way,” he said, sagely.

Gradually, like a developing image on paper, the horizon began to lighten. The blues and grays of night were replaced with purple then red, then finally the pinkish orange of morning. John could feel the excitement of the two groups like a palpable element, surrounding them as off in the distance a shape began to appear.

John could pinpoint the moment that everyone realised what it was. Murmurs of astonishment at the uncovered city flickered around the group and John sighed, resigning himself to the race. “Here we go again,” he muttered under his breath before nudging his camel into a gallop without warning.

He assumed a proper riding stance in the saddle, thighs tensing from the long inactivity but remembering the position well. The rest of his group was not far behind and neither was the American group. John spurred his camel faster.

John knew that camels could outrun horses on sand but there was the added factor that every beast in the race was laden with a rider and supplies. It was anyone’s game.

Beni showed up next to him and for a few seconds they were neck and neck. Then he felt the sharp sting of Beni’s crop landing on his shoulder, dangerously close to his face. The bastard didn’t know of his injury beneath his shirt but his crop his its target all the same, making him yell out in surprised pain. John’s arm instinctively came up to protect his head, receiving blow after blow. Beni’s attempt to get him to fall behind sparked a vicious anger in him.

No more playing nice.

John reached out and grabbed Beni’s arm as it swung back for another blow. He yanked it hard, pulling him from his saddle and dropping him to the ground. John grit his teeth against the pain in his body, growling “tosser” under his breath. So enraged, he nearly missed Sherlock’s comment to Beni. 

"Serves you right,” the man scolded and, just like that, John was giggling.

Sherlock soon overtook him on his camel and was racing towards the ever closer city. He could hear Anderson and Lestrade cheering them on as the thunder of hooves loomed closer. But before he knew it they were crossing into the walls of the city together, camels galloping with ease on the sand. The men behind them were a raucous eruption of expletives and groaning with two very excited voices whooping in victory.

Once deep enough into the city to claim victory John swung down from his camel with a laugh on his lips.

“Well done, Sherlock,” he shouted in excitement to his racing mate, helping him down from his camel.

“I’d say the same of you, Mister Watson.” There was a smile on his lips but the formal use of his name made John deflate the tiniest bit.

No matter. Even if he hadn’t planned on it, he liked Sherlock and wanted his friendship, if nothing else. There would be time to make amends. They had time. Instead of dwelling, he pushed his tiny unhappiness to the back burner of his mind and rounded on the losing group and said with undisguised glee, “alright, gentlemen! Pay up!”


	6. Chapter 6

First thing both groups of explorers did was set up their camps. The quartet worked quickly and efficiently, setting up three tents and shoving all their things inside and making up their bunks while the larger group worked with military precision. While the three Americans unloaded the horses and got them cooled, fed and watered, Moriarty had their band of diggers setting up tents, started a campfire for cooking and unpacking and setting up the larger pieces they had brought with them.

The quartet of Brits were done long before their American friends so they sat to eat a breakfast and watched them work. That is to say Lestrade, Anderson, and John watched them while Sherlock was looking through the notes he had hastily assembled at their hotel. The small journal filled with his untidy scribbling held the most important details of what he had heard about the city he found himself in.

He hadn’t even properly allowed the awe of actually finding Hamunaptra to sink in. If he had, he doubted he would be able to get any actual work done before Moriarty inevitably found what he was looking for first. Before their race to the city Sherlock had noticed his nemesis amongst the group of Americans. He had been unaware of his presence in the group and was subsequently incredibly angry that, once again, Moriarty managed to find a way to ensure Sherlock would fail. The pair of them met as children in London, their parents friends long before they were born. They grew up together, sharing dorm halls and holidays and trips to Egypt during their summer breaks with their families.

Sherlock could pinpoint the precise moment Moriarty and he had rapidly become enemies. It was just before they were to graduate from secondary school when they had shared their last holiday together. They were in Alexandria and their parents had allowed them to tour one of the universities together. Whilst there they had the good fortune to be allowed to witness a restoration of a tablet by a professor at the university. Together they peeked at the timeworn hieroglyphics and Sherlock couldn’t stop the deduction from coming out.

“It’s a fake.”

The professor was flabbergasted. “How could you possibly know that?”

Sherlock wasted no time pointing out the tool marks that had been carefully etched into the stone tablet to break off chunks of it. He pointed out the grooves were too clean and sharp for them to be as ancient as the seller claimed. And then he pointed out that the hieroglyphs on the tablet used language not indicative to the time period it was supposed to be from. Impressed by it all the professor asked him, “you can read those at a glance?”

“You can’t,” Sherlock asked back, legitimately surprised.

The professor demanded to speak with Sherlock’s parents about a scholarship. He wanted Sherlock to begin his formal study immediately. Moriarty was already insanely jealous of Sherlock’s talent. The attention Sherlock received was just salt in the wound. He had also hoped to be accepted into a university and become curator of the museum Sherlock’s family had spent so long funding. Instead, he was shuffled aside to make room for Sherlock’s talents. Unable to accept that Sherlock was allowed into avenues he wasn’t, he sent an anonymous letter to the university that he was dabbling in opium and cocaine and would jeopardize any digs he was allowed to embark on or damage any artifacts he was permitted to touch.

Sherlock was immediately ejected from the school without a formal investigation, which they soon regretted after Sherlock’s family stepped in to help. It was found after a very short investigation that Sherlock had not used any drugs but the university refused to take him back stating that they couldn’t afford the scrutiny. After being so near to his dream of studying in such a prestigious institute and having it ripped away he fell into a deep depression. Moriarty had betrayed him, a person he had known and trusted had sought to tear his life apart all for the sake of jealousy. His stunt with the administration at the university was the first major hurt in Sherlock’s life and he found he could not cope with it. Moriarty’s grasping and successful plan to ruin Sherlock hit him hard. He had never taken to rejection well and he was sore even after his name was cleared. In a dangerous state of mind he thought to himself, _if they think me a drug addict then an addict I shall be._

He spent a month in an opium den, having run off from his home and away from his family in a fit of despair. He allowed the toxic fumes of the noxious pellets to soften the anger in his mind and carry him towards better moods. The month he spent in such a haze flew by without his notice. He consciously slept little, ate less, and spent most of his time in a the grip of vivid visions. In them he was shown visions of ancient Egypt and he spoke with the gods and was soothed by their wise voices.

Mycroft was the one to find him. Sherlock blinked dumbly at him. To his drug soaked mind he seemed like Osiris, come to take Sherlock away. Tears sprung from his eyes and asked him where he came from, if he was taking him away and all Mycroft said in reply was, “oh Sherlock, what have you done?” His brother scooped him from the couch he had rarely left and carried him from the den of sin, softly scolding him of his idiocy, the fear clear in his voice to anyone who knew him. They returned home to London, trying to be discreet with Sherlock’s misadventure but detoxing on a boat for several weeks is not a quiet affair.

Not long after their return Sherlock’s brush with drugs and his expulsion from the university because of it became common parlour gossip and his parents were ashamed. “You’re capable of so much more” they said. “You should never let people like Moriarty get the best of you” they said. “You had such potential! You could have studied anywhere” they said. But he had ruined everything because of Moriarty’s betrayal and Sherlock’s inability to keep from destroying himself.

It was years before he was able to show himself in Egypt and its scholastic societies again. Even then it was only at the behest of Mycroft and his parents’ influence. Slowly, he was able to regain some ground in the field, even if he had to perform most of his studies on his own. He had hoped to find respect in his parents’ eyes once more with an acceptance to the Bembridge Scholars but, tragically, it was not to be. They died during an outbreak of malaria shortly after his acceptance back into society and Sherlock never got the chance to prove to them he was capable of better. To properly show his gratitude to them for all they had done, their protection and their schooling.

He could have been so much further in life by now if it hadn’t been for Moriarty. And he hated him for that. Hated himself for letting that weasel of a man get to him, bring him down in such spectacular fashion. Thinking of the past rapidly drew him into anger and he could feel himself begin to shake with barely contained contempt.

He was jostled from his thoughts when John nudged his shoulder. “Ready to start digging?”

Sherlock blinked at him, his thoughts brought forcefully to the present. John’s excited, friendly face soothed Sherlock’s mood and after a moment he nodded once and said, “yes. And I think I know where we can start.”

“Excellent,” he replied. He fiddled with his fingers before digging into his bag for something. Sherlock watched him with curiosity that only grew when he drew a bundle from it and held it out for him.

“What is it,” he asked.

“It’s a little tool kit that I….uh, borrowed from our American friends.”

Sherlock felt himself smile wider. “Borrowed, you say?” He took it, opening it to inspect the little brushes and picks.

John shrugged, “borrowed without permission,” he admitted.

“I see.” Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle at the sneaky creature that John Watson was. He pushed himself up from the ground and said, holding out his hand to help John up, “come, Watson. There’s exploring to do.”

He also couldn’t stop the small shiver of pleasure he found in John’s answering smile or the feel of his hand in his own.

_This is turning out to be a very good day, indeed, he thought before bouncing off in search of an entrance._

 

///~\\\\\

 

Since the larger group had taken the obvious entrance into the underworld of the city, Sherlock sought out an alternative entrance. After some searching, the small group found a caved in smaller entrance near the grander one. While this one wasn’t as ornately decorated there was a statue of Anubis peering over it from a high hill and tucked further back. Sherlock rattled off how his research of ancient readings said that the Book of Amun Ra was supposedly buried beneath a statue of Anubis. “It’s as good a place to start as any,” he reasoned.

No one objected to the idea even if he did see John try to suppress a shudder. Rather than ask or dwell on it he urged them to inspect the entrance.

When they peeked inside they saw it was a long way down and that the stairs that had led to the surface had crumbled away. They debated on whether or not going in through that way was a good idea considering they all knew Egyptian tombs were notorious for traps and labyrinthine layouts where one could easily lose their way. There was no guarantee that they would be able to have a clear path through the tomb and no guarantee that the path to the entrance would be clear.

Still, they decided to try it. Nothing gained without trial and error, nothing gained without the courage to obtain it.

In short order, John had used some rope to fashion a ladder and attached it to one of the pillars. Confident it would hold, he patted the stone like a well-behaved pet and went to join the group at the opening. “Who’s going in first,” he asked.

“I am, obviously,” Sherlock said with excitement.

“How’re you going to see down there?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I’m bringing a torch. I’ll call for you when I’ve had a look around.”

Lestrade gave him a wary look and asked, “you sure you’ll be okay down there by yourself?”

Sherlock grinned at him, shouldering a small bag with his torch and fire starter. “Why? You think a mummy’s going to get me?” With that, he strode over to the ladder and eased himself over the rim of the entrance and into the tomb. Slow and careful as you please, Sherlock lowered himself to the ground. Once his feet touched the stable surface he let out a breath of relief he hadn’t realized he was holding.

It took him a minute to get the torch started and when his eyes adjusted to the light he felt his mouth drop open.

All around him were the remains of a mummification chamber. He found slabs of stone that marked where the bodies had lain and all around him he saw large, metal disks. Upon closer inspection he grew incredibly excited when he realized what they were. He rushed over to the ladder and called up, “quick! I need a cloth! Something to wipe the dust off these things!”

“What things,” Lestrade called back.

“I’ll explain in a minute! The cloth, Lestrade!”

In a matter of minutes, Sherlock had wiped the dust from all the disks and he had managed to drag one over to the ladder. He called for more rope and when it descended he carefully tied a loop around it so it could be hoisted up. He climbed back up and helped the other men drag the disk up. In the sunlight it glinted beautifully while he polished it.

“What’s that for,” John asked, genuinely curious.

“This, my dear Watson, is a mirror. We’re going to use it to catch the light.” He flashed him a wide, toothy grin before saying, “help me position it.”

With both of them working to anchor it in the slippery sand, they were soon able to angle the mirror so that it pushed a bright ray of sunshine down into the hole, hopefully in the direction of the first one in the row. With any luck, they would be able to light the room. Full of giddy excitement, Sherlock rushed back over to the ladder and said, “follow me, boys!”

When his feet touched the tomb floor again he rushed over to the first mirror so that he could angle it just so. John had just touched down off the ladder just as he whispered to himself, “and then there was light.”

With the twist of the mirror the beam of light bounced off one mirror to the next, to the next, until every mirror was reflecting the light of the sun. The room became clearer and Sherlock felt a swell of pride. He wished his parents could see it, wished he could see the pride beaming in them as surely as the sun was in the mirrors.

When Lestrade and Anderson at last entered the chamber Sherlock spread his arms and announced proudly, “welcome to the preparation room!”

“Preparation for what,” John asked dubiously.

Sherlock gave him an obscenely manic smile and said, “for entering the afterlife.” He spun on his heels to begin searching the room. He heard Lestrade clarify that the room was a room where they prepared mummies for burial.

“Well that sounds cheery,” John said with a small amount of cheek.

“Come on,” Sherlock urged them onwards. “We need to find that base of the statue before those beastly Americans beat us to it! Can’t have them finding the book now can we?”

It didn’t take them long to all have lighted torches and searching the room for an exit. Once it was found Sherlock warned them to tread carefully and to stay together. They were in very uncharted territory and it was easy to find your death in such a place. They exited the room into a long passageway that twisted and turned but had no other outlets until they were let out into a chamber that seemed like it was at a crossroads.

In between two passageways, nestled up against the wall, was the base of Anubis. Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet, buoyant with delight at having found what he was looking for. He couldn’t believe how well preserved everything was if they were able to find their intended target so quickly.

Lestrade’s voice pulled him from his internal excitement by asking, “where’d Anderson get to?”

“He’s a grown man, he’ll figure it out,” Sherlock snapped, not wanting to be distracted. He dropped his torch and dug out the tool kit John snagged for him, readying himself to brush away the dust and read the inscriptions.

He walked towards the statue, wanting to touch the ancient thing more than he could possibly say. To have such history under his fingertips, he suppressed the shudder of anticipation just thinking of it. Just before he reached it they heard haunting, bellowing sounds coming from the halls just to the right of the statue.

The three men pressed themselves against the statue and inched forward. Sherlock heard the click of a gun and whipped his head around to find John and Lestrade both holding pistols in their hands.

“Oh really,” Sherlock whispered. “What do you think that could possibly be?”

“Could be anything,” Lestrade whispered back. John remained silent.

“It’s probably just the Americans. What are we even hiding for?” John shushed him and he hushed, leaning back against the statue. He dropped a hand to the cold stone and ran his fingertips along the engravings.

John and Lestrade scooted past him and whipped around the corner, guns drawn, and met with exactly what Sherlock had predicted. The Americans appeared from the darkness, gun brandished and a pack of diggers bringing up the rear. They all dropped their guns and stepped back a few inches from each other.

“Scared the bejeezus out of us, Watson,” Burns said, with an uneasy chuckle.

“Likewise,” John replied with a tight smile.

Then with a frown Burns pointed at Sherlock and said, “hey, that’s my tool kit.”

John and Lestrade put up their guns again as did the rest of the Americans. John had his trained on Burns, daring him to take the kit back from Sherlock and he put up his hands in surrender saying, “perhaps I was mistaken.”

“Perhaps you are,” John said with a dangerous smile.

Sherlock didn’t appreciate the excessive, “macho-man” behavior from everyone present so he cleared his throat and said in a tone that brooked no argument, “lovely to see you gents but if you’d excuse us we have a lot of work ahead of us.” He followed up the statement with a grin that he knew would cower men of smaller constitutions.

Moriarty popped his head up from behind the men with guns and said, “I am very certain that you’re in the wrong place, Sherlock. Don’t you have something else to be doing? Something on a couch back in Alexandria, perhaps?”

Sherlock blanched at the subtle dig towards his unfortunate past but it was remedied when John flicked one gun to aim at Moriarty and said, “watch your tone.” Sherlock’s lips twitched the tiniest bit into a smile over his blind protective streak.

Moriarty giggled and clapped his hands, “oh, goodie for you, Sherlock. You’ve got yourself a guard dog.”

John ignored the comment but gave a pointed look to each of the men there and said, “this is our site. We got here first.”

Davis’s fingers clenched around the handle of his pistol and he set his jaw. “This here is our dig site, friend.”

John cocked his head, hands steady and calm. “I don’t see your name written on it, mate.”

Sherlock knew he was about to be muscled out of his rightful place once more so he began running his eyes over the space looking for a clue as to where to go next when he noticed a dark crack in the floor. He kicked some pebbles down into it and heard them clatter. The sound registered a larger space, a room, and not far down beneath the statue. If they could find the chamber before the Americans broke into the statue and found the secret compartment...

The stalemate was reaching a dangerous point and it prompted Sherlock to act before anyone got it in their head that shooting at each other was the thing to do. Dramatically, he rolled his eyes and sighed before stepping between the two fronts of men. “Listen to the lot of you, bickering like schoolchildren. This is a large place full of things to explore, plenty big for the lot of us.” He focused his attention on John then, placing a hand on his dominant arm and giving it an encouraging squeeze. “There are other places to dig,” he said with purpose, hoping his expression read _I have a plan you idiot, don’t ruin it by giving them a reason to shoot us_.

As he’d hoped, John got the message and stood down, Lestrade following his lead. His guns reholstered, he gave a short nod to the Americans and said, “by all means, enjoy the statue.”

The trio took another branch leading off the room, taking them deeper into the tomb. Once they were far enough from echoing earshot, Lestrade whispered to Sherlock, “care to explain why we just rolled over and let them take our statue?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a smirk, “there’s a room under that statue. If we find it we stand a chance of sharing a piece of what’s inside that statue.”

“How do you even know that?” He shook his head and quickly followed it with, “nevermind that, what do you think is in there,” Lestrade asked him.

Sherlock shrugged, “could be anything. Bembridge Scholars say it has a secret compartment that contains the Book of Amun Ra. But that’s just conjecture.” They walked a few meters until they came to a doorway with stairs that led down. Sherlock rubbed his palms together in victory and anticipation. “Care to follow, gentlemen?”


	7. Chapter 7

The trio was lucky enough to find a stairway that went down into the depths of the city. Putting his mental mapping skills to good use, Sherlock lead them towards their goal of trying to come up underneath the statue. Several minutes of fumbling in the dim and paying scant attention to the glyphs on the walls, Sherlock frantically lead them to a large open room. He shushed them all and listened intently to the sounds of talking and shuffling away and was rewarded.

Sherlock grinned and shared a conspiratorial look with his companions and said, “I think, gentlemen, that we’ve found our way under the statue.”

Lestrade and John looked upwards to survey the ceiling. “How does that help us, exactly?”

“Simple,” Sherlock said, calculating the distance they’d need to close for them to be able to dig upwards. “If we’re underneath the statue then that means we’ll be able to take our chances at breaking into the base of Anubis ourselves.”

He ran over to a rather large carved stone bench and gestured for the two men to help him drag it out. He estimated where the statue stood and positioned the bench beneath the spot and stood atop it. He could just barely touch it with his fingertips and smiled in triumph. “We may just be able to snatch the prize right from underneath the statue and out of Moriarty’s grubby fingers!”

John didn’t seem convinced. “But what if the roof caves in on us?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Then they’d be trapped in the rubble, too, and none of us get the book.” He walked over to John’s ever present duffel of weapons and rifled through it, looking for a pickaxe he had stuffed in it earlier. “Would be worth it just to keep Moriarty’s paws off it.”

Triumphant in his search he pulled it out and turned to face John and tell him to get digging when the man’s expression stilled him. John stood there, arms crossed with one hand cupping his chin in thought. Concern warring with amusement and something akin to pity was blossoming on his face and Sherlock didn’t like it one bit. “What are you looking at?”

“You and Moriarty have a past, then?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Obvious.” Rather than explain further he stepped onto the bench and began chipping away at the stone above them. After several minutes with no help from either of the other men Sherlock stopped and said, “well get a move on, then! Can’t admit defeat to the Americans! Once was more than enough, how embarrassing would a second time be!”

Without further discussion Lestrade and John dug into the duffel for digging implements and joined Sherlock on the bench to begin digging into the ceiling.

 

///~\\\\\

 

Moriarty read over the hieroglyphs on the outside of the statue, marveling at their neatness, the brightness of the pigment after all the centuries of being buried. He smelled the sand, the dust of ages and the scared, excited sweat of the men. He almost lost himself in the moment when Henderson slammed a crowbar into a seam between two tiles.

Fear spiked through him and he reached out to still the movement before it jarred anything. “Wait!” At the man’s confusion he explained, “Seti was no fool. We must be very careful to avoid any undue,” he flicked his eyes over to the terrified hired help, “casualties. Perhaps we should let the diggers open it.” His tone brokered no argument.

Irritated with Moriarty’s caution he tossed the crowbar down and said, “fine. Let them open it. Can’t see the harm in a thousand year old statue though.”

 _And that’s why you’d be dead without me_ , Moriarty thought ruefully. He motioned to the diggers and spoke to them in arabic, telling them to dig. They looked hesitant, uncomfortable, but his tone of voice and his glaring threatened consequences for noncompliance.

Together, three diggers worked crossbars into the seams of the tiles, working the piece out so they could get to the fabled compartment inside. Moriarty watched from a safe distance, urging the three men who hired him to follow his example, as the men worked. He encouraged them, telling them they were doing well, just a little more, faster, so close, until finally a sharp hiss sounded followed by terrified screams filled the chamber.

The men who had opened the compartment were showered with a white substance and wherever it touched the men’s skin burned cruelly. They stumbled away from the statue, dropping to the ground in pain. Moriarty watched without sympathy as they writhed, considering them entirely dispensable. He knew that the extent of their injuries would be fatal, given the lack of a hospital and the harsh conditions of the desert. The knowledge didn’t weigh at all on his heart.

“That, gentlemen,” he said with a smile on his face, “is why you let the diggers open things for you.” He wiggled his fingers in the air, “don’t want to get your hands dirty.”

 

///~\\\\\

 

The trio of men beneath the statue heard some hubbub from above them and, not wanting the combined forces of their digging and the screaming to rattle the ceiling anymore than necessary, decided to stop and break.

“Should we be concerned about that,” John pointed to the ceiling with a worried expression on his face.

Sherlock shrugged, “I doubt it will have any bearing on us. The screaming has stopped now. Most likely the diggers met with some unpleasantness when they opened the statue. The ancient Egyptians were really clever folk, protecting their wealth with all manner of traps and gruesome surprises.” He grinned and looked at the ceiling, “maybe they found one.”

After a few minutes of quiet listening Sherlock observed, “I don’t hear any commotion anymore. Perhaps they’ve taken a break to tend to their wounded.” A hopeful glint glimmered in his eyes and he added, “if we’re lucky, Moriarty will have been sorely inconvenienced.”

John’s look of concern didn’t remove itself and after a silent minute he asked, “what’s the story with him, then?”

Lestrade hummed under his breath in warning. “Not a good topic of discussion, there ol’ chum. Old stories carry old wounds.”

“Lestrade!” Sherlock growled at him. “Do kindly keep your muttering to yourself.”

Sherlock’s cheeks colored red with embarrassment and anger and he stalked off to sit by himself in the corner and sulk. John honestly hadn’t meant to upset him. He was curious by the animosity that seemed to ooze off Sherlock whenever Moriarty was present or his name came up. Clearly his acquaintanceship with the man was not a favorable one and John felt guilty for having brought pain to Sherlock, however unwittingly.

The silence in the chamber was deafening and uncomfortable. It made John want to get up pace or ramble about nonsense or anything just to fill it. John’s thoughts drifted back to the chamber they had first entered in, how Sherlock had said it was a preparation room for mummies and how, despite living a large portion of his life in Egypt, he knew almost nothing of the old world.

Extending this bit of knowledge as a peace offering he cleared his throat and asked Sherlock, “would you mind explaining the mummification process? I confess I haven’t the foggiest idea of what it all entails.”

Sherlock’s eyes squinted at him suspiciously. “Why?”

John shrugged. “Thought it might be interesting to know more about the place we’re currently standing in. I know this is your field of study. Seemed prudent to ask a master of the field.”

Pride shone in his eyes even if his cheeks pinked with the compliment. He stood from his corner and walked cautiously back over towards John. Sweeping a gaze over the man he decided the endeavor worth his efforts and sat down and began to explain the process to him.

“Well, it all starts with your death of course. Your body is left to dry, like a human raisin, in the sun with lots of oils and salts.”

John’s lips curled in disgust. “Human raisin?”

Sherlock nodded excitedly. “Of course, that is, they dry your body after they remove your organs.”

John was suddenly very sorry he asked. He was sure to regret asking his next question but he asked anyway. “And how do they do that?”

Sherlock raised one arm and drew a line down his side with his finger and explained how the removed the organs and their significance in the lore and how each organ had it’s own jar and each jar represented a god. Then he got really excited and said, “and here’s the real clever bit. Do you know how they took out your brain?”

Lestrade groaned, having so far been a quiet observer of Sherlock’s lesson and just tossing rocks to hear their echo. But the mention of removing of brains he said in a pained voice, “I’m not sure John would find it as amusing as you do, Sherlock.”

Unfazed by the comment Sherlock steamed on ahead. “They took a red hot poker, shoved it up your nose, scrambled everything it around a bit then ripped it all out through your nostrils. And then they would just throw it away! They thought everything that made a person who they were lay within their heart and not their head! Fascinating, isn’t it?”

John reflexively rubbed his nose in sympathy, still stuck on the removal bit. “Cor, that’s gotta hurt.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flapped a hand in front of his face. “It’s called mummification, John. You’ll obviously be dead when they do this.”

John shot a pleading look over to Lestrade, who was trying very hard not to picture his brains being ripped out through his nose, and said in a terrified voice, “Greg, if we don’t survive this...don’t put me down for mummification.”

Sherlock snorted and Lestrade said, “likewise,” and tossed a largish rock at the ceiling.

Seconds later an ominous cracking sound echoed in the room and both John and Sherlock looked up to see pebbles and dust sifting down on top of them. They dove out of the way, making for the exit, Lestrade on their tails when the ceiling opened up and dropped a giant rock in the center of the room.

When no other sounds of impending doom were forthcoming they tiptoed back in the room to inspect the damage. As the dust settled the shape became more identifiable and then realization struck Sherlock like a ton of bricks. Or, more aptly, a stone sarcophagus.

“Oh my god,” Sherlock whispered to himself. He reached out and touched it tentatively, almost as if he wasn’t sure it was real.

“It’s a sarcophagus,” Lestrade supplied.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said with no heat in the word.

All three heads looked up to the hole in the ceiling that still drizzled small stone fragments and dust. They listened for signs of the whole structure collapsing or for the sounds of men above them panicking at the sudden makeshift earthquake. Hearing nothing, Sherlock began inspecting the giant case.

“Fascinating,” he whispered. “Buried at the base of Anubis has only a handful of meanings. This person must have been someone of great importance.” He thought about the possibilities of who it could be and added with a shrug, “or he did something very naughty.” He tsked at the deceased person with a click of his tongue and smiled to himself. “I’m amazed the stone hasn’t cracked with the force of the impact. Must be a very thick casing to have survived that.”

Sherlock dug in the kit John procured for him and pulled out a pair of brushes. He handed one to Lestrade and told John to hold the torch over them so they could see what they were uncovering. Gently as they could, they swept away the sand that had fallen into the grooves of the sarcophagus.

Once an inscription was clear Lestrade asked, “so who’s our friend here?”

Sherlock frowned as he read, thoroughly confused. He had never seen an inscription of the sort before. _“'He that shall not be named',”_ he said simply. There was always a name, always a description of the person inside if they were wealthy enough to afford the process of mummification. Especially if he was buried at the base of Anubis. The puzzle of the mummy’s identity unnerved and gnawed at Sherlock.

John leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder and blew into a crevice of the stone and saw a star with the imprint of a scarab in it. Sherlock ignored it for the moment, puzzling over the mummy and trying to search through his mind palace for an example of the type of inscription he faced.

“That looks like a lock,” John said to Lestrade.

“Clearly whoever’s in there was meant to stay put,” he replied. “Wonder how long it would take to crack into this thing without a key. Do you think we’d damage it much if we were to try?”

John’s words sent a lightning bolt of recognition through Sherlock’s body. “A key,” he whispered to himself. Then louder, “a key!” He shoved his fingers into his hair, excitement buzzing through him. “Oh! That’s what he meant!”

“I’m sorry,” Lestrade said, thoroughly confused, “we seem to have missed something.”

“As per usual,” Sherlock said. He held out his hand in Lestrade’s direction. “Hand over the box.”

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow, unsure of where Sherlock was going with it, but handed it over nonetheless. Sherlock’s fingers prodded the box and opened it and laid it flat on the indent in the stone. They fit together perfectly.

“The man on the barge, our friend with the hook, he said that he was looking for a key. And here we have the perfect fit of a lock and key. The fact that we found the map with this little trinket is no coincidence. These were made for each other, a matched key and lock set.”

“Well let’s get this box opened and see who’s inside shall we,” Lestrade suggested.

Sherlock smiled and laid his palm over the box, intending to turn it and unlock the stone case when a stark, terrified scream sounded from behind them. The three men startled and they turned in the direction of the screaming.

“That sounds like our Warden,” John supplied.

Without any verbal consensus they all dashed off to see what was causing the commotion. They ran down a hallway towards the screaming and almost ran into the man himself. He was clutching his head and writhing, running wildly and seemed to take no notice of their presence.

“Whoa, whoa, Anderson!” Lestrade and John tried to wrangle him, to get him to calm himself but it was no use. He broke free from their grasping hands and ran off down the long hallway and ran dead on into the wall at the end. The sound of his skull connecting with the stone was deafening and it chilled them to the bone.

Then all was silent.


	8. Chapter 8

The three men stood over the body of their previously terrified, then abruptly deathly silent, traveling companion.

Lestrade reached forth an unsure hand and took a step forward. “Should we move him?”

Sherlock and John answered in conjunction, “no.” They looked at each other then, eyeing each other with interest before Sherlock directed his gaze back to Anderson’s body. “We need to examine him first.” He gestured for John to take the lead. “Doctor, would you care to examine first?”

John’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “How- how did you you know I was trained as a doctor?”

“Surgeon’s hands, the way you stitch your clothing. Evidence is all there.” He gestured again without further explanation, “after you.”

Cautiously, John lowered himself to a crouch in front of Anderson and put a finger to his pulse point on his throat. He frowned and after a minute he said, “there’s no pulse. He’s dead.” He felt the broken skin of Anderson’s forehead and felt his fingers squish down into soft tissue. “The force of the impact caused the skull to split and the brain to bleed.” His brows furrowed in thought and he checked the man’s eyes for signs of an underlying cause. “We need to know what caused his screaming and his erratic behavior before his death, that would be the real cause of death.”

Sherlock joined him on the ground and swept his eyes over their fallen comrade. He dragged his nose over the body, smelling for chemicals as if he had falled for an ancient trap. His fingers brushed aside his shirt lapels and saw the skin in a trail reddened and it led all the way down his chest as they further peeled back the shirt. It dipped into his pants and so they hurriedly pulled his pant legs up to examine the skin and found the same irritation trail dipping into his right shoe. After tugging it off they discovered a hole burrowed into his skin.

“Something bit him and left its mark,” John commented.

“Venomous bite, perhaps? Snakes in the desert aren’t uncommon,” Sherlock suggested.

John shook his head. “Maybe, but not likely. It wouldn’t have left that large a hole and we would see little more discoloration of the skin. There would be more swelling as well. Maybe a spider of some sort. Some spider bites are known to liquefy the flesh into a hole like that. Must’ve been painful, poor bugger.”

The two men stood in unison. Lestrade looked at Anderson’s body with a grim expression. Lestrade caught Sherlock’s eye and said, “what do we do with him now?”

Sherlock shrugged, unsure of what to do with the Warden.

John helpfully directed the scene from there. He insisted they bring the body out of the tomb and find a place to inter him. Together, with no small amount of difficulty, they hauled the man out of the depths of the tomb and into the setting sun. The trio worked quickly with borrowed shovels to dig a hole a respectful distance from their site and wrapped him in his blanket for a shroud.

As John and Lestrade reached to grab the body and lower it to the ground a flickering movement from beneath the blanket at Anderson’s head made Lestrade shriek.

“What the bloody fuck!” He snatched his hand back and took several steps backward away from the body.

“Curious,” Sherlock muttered to himself. He tore the blanket back and saw a little black beetle chewing its way out of Anderson’s eye. “Ah, I believe we’ve found our cause of death,” he commented dryly.

“What the fuck is that thing,” Lestrade asked, thoroughly freaked out.

“It’s a scarab beetle.” Sherlock knelt next to the body to watch it wriggle its way out of Anderson’s eye. “Strange, though. They usually don’t feed on living flesh. They’re scavengers. They clean up the dead, not prey on the living.”

“Right,” John said before using the muzzle of his gun to flick it off Anderson’s face and smashing it with a rock. “No more flesh eating beetles for me tonight, thank you.”

Without further commotion Sherlock and John deposited Anderson in his grave and the three men covered him with sand. None of them knew the Warden in a familiar capacity and the burial lacked the usual solemn air that accompanied a funeral. They shared a moment of silence for their poor, departed, comrade and then took their leave.

They each found a way to occupy their thoughts, none of them particularly interested in chatting. Lestrade built a fire, John cleaned his guns, and Sherlock went snooping for local gossip. By the time he returned to their campsite Lestrade had made them a nice dinner and John was in the middle of telling the story of how he joined the Fusiliers.

“You did all that for a girl,” Lestrade said, chuckling.

John nodded with a smile. “I’ll admit, not my brightest moment.” He took a sip from his canteen and grinned at the memory. “She was real giving to a man going off to die in war, though. Very into “supporting the troops” as it were.”

They both laughed and Sherlock rolled his eyes, uninterested in John’s former conquests. “Would you like to hear what I just found out,” he asked before settling down in the sand next to John. Without waiting for a response he told them with no small amount of undisguised glee, “it looks as if our American friends had a bit of excitement as well today. Seems that three of their diggers were melted. Quite gruesomely, too.” He sniffed and reached for John’s canteen and added, “unfortunately, Moriarty was not on the receiving end of the melting.”

Lestrade gestured wildly with his hands, “now wait a second. How on earth were they “melted”?”

“Pressurized salt acid in the cracks of the statue. When the diggers loosened the tile they were working on, they tripped the trap and shot out a spray of salt acid. The chemical burns the skin instantly and it’s incredibly painful. Unfortunately for the men who are afflicted, there’s not much they can do. They’ll probably die as a result of their wounds.”

Lestrade shivered visibly and John was grimly silent next to him. Lestrade said bitterly, stoking the fire, “maybe this place really is cursed.”

Just then a rogue wind ripped through the campsite and flickered their fire and both John and Lestrade shuddered, sharing a look distress.

“The pair of you are unbelievable,” Sherlock said, exasperated. “There’s no such thing as curses.”

John nudged him with his shoulder. “Don’t believe in them, hmm?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t believe in curses or ghost stories or any of that other mumbo jumbo that’s so popular in this country. One needs verifiable, hard evidence that something exists. Flesh and blood, stone and paper, actual, factual evidence!” He sniffed and crossed his arms, leaning back into the wall behind them. “That’s what I believe, at any rate.”

Trying to lighten the mood Lestrade grabbed one of Anderson’s bags and said, “well, for argument’s sake, let’s see what our friend the Warden believed in.” Lestrade stuck his hand in and immediately curses, _“ahh, shit!”_

Sherlock jumped, colliding with John, in surprise. John’s hands quickly bracketed his shoulders, holding him still.

“What is it,” John asked, ready for a fight.

Lestrade pulled his hand out and sucked on a bleeding finger. “Broken bottle,” he said around the finger. With his other hand he reached in more carefully and extracted the bottle. A broken neck with a cork stuck in it revealed itself and Lestrade squinted in the firelight to read the label. He whistled through his lips with an impressed look on his face.

“Glenlivet, 12 years old! Slimey bastard had good taste!”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes and John laughed, his vibrating chest rumbling against Sherlock’s back. A warmth was spreading through Sherlock’s chest and a small blush was creeping its way up his throat when distant shouting broke their comfortable mirth. John removed his hands, a loss which Sherlock silently cursed, and grabbed his gun. He stood quickly and said, “stay here, I’ll be back.”

“Now just hang on a minute,” Sherlock said, a pout already forming on his lips at the removal of John’s hands. “I’m not staying here while you gallivant off towards ominous sounds.” He stood and followed John with purpose Lestrade groaned loudly and stood, quickly running to catch up.

They all regretted the decision to leave their campsite once they reached the American’s campsite and found it overrun with cloaked men on horses brandishing guns and swords. Terrified diggers screamed and ran for cover and the Americans hooted and hollered from a covered vantage point, popping off rounds and having a grand old time. Moriarty and Beni were nowhere to be seen.

John was immediately in the fray, yelling for men to run for cover and shooting assailants as they ran down their unarmed targets.

Lestrade joined the Americans in their cover and began picking off targets, leaving Sherlock alone and unsure of how to help. He spied a forgotten shotgun in the chaos of a torn down tent. He plucked it up and pumped the fore-stock and moved to take aim when he heard thunder behind him. He turned just in time to see a man leaning over his horse, ready to cut Sherlock down.

Without hesitation he squeezed the trigger and the man was knocked from his horse. The unexpected force of the gun had him reeling and he stumbled backward, his feet tripping him and making him fall. His head connected with a rock and he saw stars beneath his eyes, the sound of ringing in his ears blurring with the shouts of men.

John’s familiar voice tore through the haze and he blinked hard, trying to get the pain to clear so he could focus. He turned his head and saw a man knock John’s gun from his hand. He was certain they would all die there and the vague feeling of disappointment filtered in through the pain. _So close to your goal, Sherlock, and you have to get taken down by a rock in the sand. Well done, Mycroft will be very proud._

He blinked and then John was holding a burning stick of dynamite out and his attacker held up his hands in surrender. He spoke quietly to John and Sherlock’s ringing ears couldn’t quite hear it which frustrated him to no end. He detested not knowing what was happening. Then, as quick as they had come, the cloaked men were back on their horses and galloping away.

 

///~\\\\\

 

John had only seen out of the corner of his eye a man trying to run down Sherlock and his heart stuttered in his chest. He ran back across the open courtyard trying to get to him when Lestrade’s voice rang out in warning. He only narrowly escaped losing his arm as a sword came swinging out of nowhere and dragging him back into the fight at hand. Anger pulsing through him, John levelled his gun to the man’s face and had it promptly ripped out of his hand.

He was not going down without a fight and if he were meant to die in Hamunaptra this go around he would take every black clothed bastard with him. He snatched up a stick of dynamite with an extra long wick and held it a few inches from his chest.

“Your call, mate,” he challenged his attacker.

The man growled, scowling at John. He noticed the box of dynamite and knew if one stick blew they all would and then they would all go down. He stepped back and shouted to his men in arabic, calling a cease-fire. He glared at John and said ,”we will shed no more blood.” He pointed a finger at him and said with a deadly calm, “but you have one day to leave this place or die. Next time, we there will be more of us. And there will be no mercy, this I promise you.”

He mounted a horse and shouted to his men and they were all running back into the darkness of the open desert.

John watched with a sharp eye as they disappeared, fingers pulling the wick out of the stick before it reached the explosive in his hand. He tossed the hissing wick into the sand and kicked sand over it to extinguish it, dropping the dynamite back in its box. He muttered to one of the surviving diggers that they might want to move them away from the campfire before an explosion kills them all.

He then turned his attention to Sherlock who was blinking and groaning in the sand. He knelt down and said in a soft voice, “hey Sherlock, are you okay?”

Sherlock tried to raise his head and sit up but pain spiked through him and he hissed at it. “Fine, fine,” he lied.

“Doesn’t look fine to me,” John said, concerned. His fingers gently lifted Sherlock’s head, taking the weight for his neck. “Hold still,” he said softly as his fingers probed the skin. The gentle touches sent shivers down Sherlock’s spine and his sighed at the tenderness in John’s touch. He closed his eyes, revelling in the feeling. When the fingers stopped probing and instead one hand traveled to his eyes he frowned.

“Open your eyes for me,” John told him. Sherlock obeyed and found John searching his eyes for signs of distress. Finding nothing that immediately concerned him, John smiled at him warmly. “Just a bump on the head. I think you’ll live.”

Sherlock smiled back, noticing with mirth that John’s fingers had moved to stroke his cheek. “So sure about that, doctor?”

John huffed a quiet laugh. “In my professional opinion? Yeah. Let’s get you up, slowly now.”

With John’s strong, confident hands, he helped Sherlock to sit up just as Lestrade and the Americans arrived.

“That proves it,” Henderson said with bitter excitement in his voice. “Those desert dwelling punks attacking us proves there’s gold under this sand.”

“What else would they be protecting,” Davis asked with vigor.

John looked at them with disgust in their ignorance. “Those men are desert people. Gold holds no value to them. They covet water over gold. Unless there’s a giant lake under there that we don’t know about, there has to be another reason for their attack.”

The men didn’t want to listen to John’s reasoning and began to bicker amongst themselves as to how much treasure lay under them and where it might be found and so on and so on. Lestrade helped John get Sherlock to stand and the three of them made their way back to their camp where they fell on Anderson’s bottle of scotch with fervor.

Sherlock had admitted he didn’t drink much but the pounding in his head and the gentle prodding from John and Lestrade wore his resolve down and he took several sips of the amber liquid. Half a bottle later and they were all in various stages of drunkitude. Lestrade, wore out with the action and drink, passed out in his tent. John, a career carouser, was tipsy on his way to being drunk with his eyes shiny and nose red. Sherlock was thoroughly knackered and the most inebriated of the lot.

Long after Lestrade retired to his tent the two of them stayed up with the fire and the bottle warming them, giggling and sneaking shy looks at each other. Soon, they were telling horrible jokes and laughing entirely too hard at them.

“Have you heard this one,” Sherlock said with as much dignity as he could muster with his hair all mussed up and his cheeks red with liquor. “What kind of room does fungi need to grow?”

John choked a laugh and took a swig from the bottle. “Not a clue.”

Sherlock pursed his lips to keep from laughing and leaned in to whisper, “a mushroom.”

They both cackled at the terrible joke and Sherlock snatched the bottle from John’s loose fingers. In a moment they settled, their laughs growing quiet and then disappearing altogether. The tension that always seemed to gather around them when they were alone pulled tighter. Sherlock felt an air of anticipation but didn’t know what to do about it. He licked his lips nervously and he saw how John’s eyes darted to watch his tongue’s movement. It stirred something in him, made him want to reach out and wet John’s lips too. The previous sting of apparent indifference from their encounter on the boat mingled itself with the obvious fondness in his touches during John’s examination of him. The two conflicting events made him wish he were a gambling man, willing to bet everything on the chance of a kiss. Instead, he tipped the bottle back and took another swallow.

John tilted his head and asked, “so, why exactly are you here? You’re not exactly a treasure hunter or a fighter, you have me curious.”

The question surprised him. He blinked and asked, “is there somewhere else I should be?”

John shrugged and leaned back into the blanket they spread over the sand, making himself comfy in the sun-warmed sand. He looked up into the night sky for a moment before settling his eyes on Sherlock. “I don’t know. I don’t know much about you. All I know is that you’re a brilliant man and that you were desperate to find this place.” Sherlock blushed at the “brilliant man” moniker and bit his lip. “Tell me why it was so important.”

Sherlock waved a hand in front of his face, accidentally clipping his nose. “You’re going to think it’s ridiculous. Even my own brother thinks it’s silly.”

“You have a brother?”

Sherlock nodded, taking another swig. “Mycroft.”

John cracked a smile at the recognition of the name. “You mean the man Lestrade named his camel after?”

The old image of a camel in a suit had them both in tears again and it was several minutes before they had settled enough to talk evenly again. John reached across to take the bottle back, his fingers brushing Sherlock’s as he did so. “So we’ve established that you have a brother who thinks you finding a city of the dead is silly. But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

Sherlock swallowed. “You may not like me so much after I tell you,” he said quietly, frowning at his twisting fingers.

“Hey,” John said, scooting over to Sherlock and taking a hand in his own. “I already think you’re amazing. Pursuing this dangerous adventure with such tenacity is extraordinary. The way you navigate this place, the way you just seem to know things, it’s...it’s really amazing, Sherlock. Plus you have a wicked sense of humor.” He added silently, _and you’re bloody gorgeous_. “How could I not like you?”

The sincerity in John’s voice threatened Sherlock’s composure in his compromised state. His throat clenched at the fondness in his voice and he swallowed around it so he could breathe. After a moment he said simply, “I have to prove myself.”

John’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Prove yourself to whom?”

“Mycroft, my parents, the Bembridge scholars.” He grimaced, “Moriarty.”

“That man gives me the creeps. He’s...oily,” John said with a frown.

“He’s a man with no morals, extreme jealousy of things that don’t belong to him and the ambition to take things from you if necessary.”

“Speaking from experience?”

Sherlock nodded. “He...he made my life very difficult some years ago and caused me to lose my place at University. In turn, I made some bad decisions that involved drug use and I haven’t exactly recovered entirely.” He sighed deeply and drew himself up. “But that’s why I’m here. To prove to everyone that I am worthy of my place. I’ve learned from my mistakes and I am proud of what I am, what I’ve accomplished, and no one, not even Moriarty, is going to take me from my rightful place again!”

John smirked at Sherlock’s fiery speech. He placed a hand on the man’s thigh and asked with laughter in his voice, “and what are you exactly?”

Sherlock scrunched his face in thought and, seeming to come to a conclusion, he leaned forward and said, “I...am a librarian!” He huffed a short laugh. “For the moment anyway.”

John closed his eyes and laughed at that. When he opened them again he found Sherlock staring at him with an intensity that stole the breath from him. “What is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and shifted nervously. After a moment of indecision Sherlock threw caution to the wind and said, “I find myself wanting to kiss you, Mister Watson.”

Desire spiked through John, an answering pang of want making his mouth dry. “It’s John, if you don’t mind,” he answered breathlessly.

Sherlock settled in the sand next to him, a brave hand reaching out to cup his cheek. “John,” he sighed.

John’s hand wrapped possessively, but lightly, around Sherlock’s hip. He ached to pull the man closer to him, to flatten their bodies together. But he didn’t want to move too fast, regret something later or, worse, find that Sherlock regretted anything. John just looked at him with an open, fond expression and said, “if you like, you may.”

Almost in unison their eyes slipped closed as they moved their faces together and John moved his hand from Sherlock’s hip to cup the back of his head, supporting Sherlock’s move forward. Their lips brushed briefly, barely a ghost of contact, before Sherlock’s head fell to John’s good shoulder. He whined at the fleeting contact and opened his eyes to see that Sherlock’s face was buried in his shoulder and neck.

Asleep.

Disappointment and fondness competed for position in the forefront of his emotions. God, how he wanted to kiss the man senseless. But he was willing to wait for a more opportune time. He was willing to wait for the perfect moment, not that tipsy and giddy wasn’t a lovely setting for a kiss. But he wanted to give him a kiss worthy of praise and remembrance. There was no longer any doubt or apprehension about his want for Sherlock. He would wait. When the time was right they would get their chance.

Decision made, John consoled himself with just cuddling the sleeping librarian, wrapping his arms around him and nuzzling into his hair. They would have more chances to kiss. John was sure of that. But in the meantime, he would just enjoy the warm weight of the man he was fascinated by in his arms, the smell of him as they huddled by the fire, and the ghost of a kiss tingling his lips as he fell asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

The morning shone unexpectedly on John and Sherlock as they lay pressed together in the sand. The first beam shone across Sherlock’s eyes and burned past his eyelids, waking him sharply. He startled at finding himself outside his tent and in the arms of a very warm and cuddly John Watson. The John Watson he had kissed.

No. Almost kissed.

He remembered he had fallen asleep shortly after closing his eyes and he curled in on himself reflexively, groaning in embarrassment.

The movement caused John to stir, arms tightening around Sherlock. His face scrunched in the early morning light and Sherlock found it hard not to kiss his nose and stop it’s waking wrinkling. Slowly, the blond flickered his eyes open and focused on Sherlock, smiling.

“Good morning,” John said, sleepily.

Sherlock nodded his head, “good morning.” He ducked his eyes down to his fingernails, inspecting them and giving his eyes something, anything other than John’s face, to look on. “Did you sleep well.”

John brushed a hand across Sherlock’s forehead to sweep back an errant curl. “Very. Did you?”

“Quite,” he responded stiffly. “I had no idea that sand could be so comfortable.”

John laughed at that and it made the tightness in Sherlock’s chest abate slightly. Sherlock wanted to tell John that he found the man himself just as comfortable as the sand to sleep on. But as he opened his mouth to do just that, rustling inside Lestrade’s tent reminded them that they were still very entangled with each other. Sherlock was the first to move, not wanting any jeering or ribbing from his friend. He scooted back from John quickly as if he were burned and stood. The sudden movement made him a little woozy and he cursed the drink as he made an escape behind a pillar to answer nature’s morning call and get some space from the camp.

From John.

He didn’t want to think of his awkward, failed attempt to kiss the soldier. A very experienced soldier, from the sound of it. Very experienced, at least with females, a man whom he had slept with and woken up with and had wanted him to call him by name. He leaned his forehead against the stone and cursed under his breath. He was in deep.

When he made his way back to the camp he saw Lestrade had started building up their fire and John was nowhere to be seen. Squashing the sudden panicking, disappointment, he sat down by the fire and helped Lestrade ready their breakfast. In a few moments John returned and took his seat next to Sherlock, their thighs brushing. Their close proximity made Sherlock’s cheeks warm and he prayed to any gods listening that Lestrade wouldn’t comment on it. He wanted desperately to talk to John alone, to try for another attempt at a kiss perhaps, but that would all have to wait. Lestrade broke the silence by talking about his dreams from the night before and how he missed a good English breakfast. Sherlock only responded with noncommittal grunts around his food.

Before long John asked, “so, are we opening our sarcophagus today, then?”

The memory of finding the sarcophagus screamed into Sherlock’s mind and he found it easy to push off his awkwardness in favor of an archeological find. “Yes, I believe we shall. As soon as we’re all ready we’re going to meet out three thousand year old friend.”

He took an enthusiastic bite of his food and amped himself up for inspecting their new mummy.

 

///~\\\\\

 

Moriarty roused his troupe of diggers and his clients early so that they could get an early start excavating the statue. About two hours after sunrise saw them all in the tombs, carefully clearing away debris from inside the statue. After about an hour of painstaking work, the diggers unearthed a large, embellished stone box. They gingerly lifted it out of the statue and placed it on the ground for the Americans and Moriarty to inspect.

Excitement and triumph thrummed through Moriarty as he kneeled before it to read the inscriptions. He recognized it immediately as a canopic chest and knew without a doubt that there would be valuable jars encased inside it. But he longed to know if he had found the thing that both he and Sherlock were searching for: the Book of Amun Ra.

He was hungry for it. Desperate to confirm the find and rub it in Sherlock’s face. To put him in his place, and prove once and for all that he, Moriarty, was the superior Egyptologist. With a find like the Book of Amun Ra he would be respected above all in the field and given access to the best collections in the world. Would be able to command digs anywhere he chose. His fingers itched to open the box and see for himself just what lay beneath the lacquered wood.

But first, he needed to know just what he was dealing with.

He informed his clients that there was a curse inscribed upon the chest. “Not uncommon for these types of artifacts, of course.”

“Curse, my ass,” Davis huffed.

“Does everything in this country have some kind of curse on it,” Burns asked.

“Many things have curses inscribed on them, my friends. They were mostly to ward off potential thieves and blasphemers who would come to raid the tombs.” He quirked a smile at them each in turn, “shall we test the gods and open it? Would you like to know what it says?”

Without waiting for a reply, he read aloud the inscription in ancient Egyptian and then again in English for the benefit of the Americans.

“ _‘Death will come on swift wings to whomsoever opens this chest_ ,’” he said with a smile.

As soon as the words were said a wind swept through the chamber they were in and spooked the diggers. They all ran, screaming for the exit. Moriarty rolled his eyes, knowing for sure that the wind must have been a rogue breeze from the entrance. Forced air traveling quickly through a tunnel, simple science. They would be convinced back to work soon enough, he decided, and continued to decipher the text.

Beni muttered uneasily behind him, pacing and it was beginning to grate on his nerves. The man should have been cut loose the moment they got there. Now that they were led to the city, it would be easy enough to navigate their way back. The last thing they needed was a skittish, superstitious guide.

Ignoring Beni’s mutterings and warnings of disturbing the curses, he read on: “ _‘There is one, the undead who, if brought back to life, is bound by sacred law to consummate this curse-_ ”

Davis snickered and said, “well let’s make sure we don’t bring anyone back from the dead, then.”

_“‘He will kill all who open this chest and assimilate their organs and fluids. And inso doing, he will regenerate and no longer be the undead...but a plague upon this earth.’”_

A pinprick of fear made goosepimples along his spine but he ignored it. Curses weren’t real, never would be. They were just heavily worded warnings against thieves. He would not let some ancient men wag a finger at him from the past. He would find the Book of Amun Ra despite them.

Beni didn’t seem to agree. He ran off shouting to beware of the curse, flailing, slipping on the sand in his haste to flee from the tomb.

“Stupid, superstitious bastard,” Davis muttered. Moriarty silently agreed.

Together Burns and Henderson lifted the edges of the lid and opened the chest. A puff of dust greeted them as the chest opened. A neatly folded package of cloth was the first thing they saw and Moriarty lunged forward to unwrap the delicate fibers. What he found made him lose his breath for a moment.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. His fingers caressed the grooves of the stone beneath them. “It can’t be...the Book of the Dead.”

He was shocked. This was not where this was supposed to be. The Book of the Dead had been rumored to be lost, believed by some to not even exist. It’s origin and making were lost to legend. Some people believed it to be a scroll, others an engraving on a wall. But to have it there in front of him, the title emblazoned proudly on its glossy, stone surface, it was too much.

Henderson huffed, “a book?”

“Who cares about a book,” Davis demanded angrily. “Where the hell’s the treasure?”

“You clearly don’t understand what we have found, do you? This,” Moriarty said as he picked up the book, almost cradling it, “this is treasure, gentlemen.”

Burns looked dubiously at it and muttered, “if that’s treasure, you can have it. That’d be like trading a cow for some magic beans!” He kicked the chest in displeasure and all of them jumped when a piece of the siding fell off and clattered to the floor. Moriarty pressed the book to his chest and knelt to inspect the opening. He grinned when he saw what was inside.

Nestled amongst molding, rotten straw, were five marble and gold-gilded jars. One of them was destroyed with time but the other four stood proudly intact. Canopic jars were recognizable swag to treasure hunters in Egypt. They would fetch a pretty penny, should they choose to sell them, or a lovely ornament on a mantel back home if they didn’t. _Let them have their “dime a dozen” trinkets_ , Moriarty thought with glee. _The book is mine._

“There’s your treasure, gentlemen.”

Burns grinned, “well now we’re onto something.”

 

///~\\\\\

 

It took them the better part of an hour to shift the heavy stone lid off the sarcophagus without dropping it on any of their toes and to lift the large wooden coffin inside. When they were finally able to open it, Sherlock was practically vibrating with undisguised glee.

“Ooh, I’ve been dreaming of this since I was a child,” he said to himself.

John snickered. “You dreamt about dead guys?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “of my first official find, obviously. This is an amazing discovery! Look,” he pointed at the wooden coffin to emphasize his point. “The sacred spells have been chiselled off. And this lock,” he pointed to the metal lock that matched the one of the stone sarcophagus, “was clearly added after its original construction. This was made for someone well before their death but for some reason they were condemned and punished by having their spirit cursed.” He bounded on his toes and rubbed his fingers together. “Open it, Lestrade! I want to meet our mummy!”

“Alright, alright, keep your shirt on.” He placed the key on it’s lock and turned until they heard the lock click. John and Lestrade together pried off the top and then they all peered into the coffin to witness their discovery.

They all grimaced at what they saw.

“Is...is he supposed to look like that,” John asked tentatively.

Lestrade shook his head. “Definitely not.”

The mummy in question was distorted, the body twisted into shape as if it were writhing. The flesh was still slick and glistening in a way that a properly embalmed body would never have done. It’s flesh was rotted away in large chunks, the remaining tissue discolored in a murky hue that Sherlock had never encountered in all his research.

“I’ve never seen a mummy look like this,” he said definitively. “In fact,” he swept his hand across the body and said, “he looks like he’s still decomposing. Which he shouldn’t be after all this time. From the looks of him, I don’t believe this body was embalmed at all. ” As soon as the words were out of his mouth an explanation popped into his mind. “Quick, I need to see the lid!”

He nearly tripped in his haste to flip over the lid and confirm his suspicions. His eyes went wide in horror at what he saw. Clean lines in groupings of four scored the wood on the underside of the lid. A fingernail shaving lodged in one of the grooves chilled him to the bone. He placed his fingers in the grooves of one grouping. “This man was buried alive.”

“Looks like he left a message, too,” Lestrade pointed out, noticing the hastily scratched words on the coffin. They were almost missed entirely due to the heavy scratches on top of them but they were clear enough that Sherlock could read them.

“ _‘Death is only the beginning’_ ,” he spoke aloud. He stood and straightened his shirt, brushing the dust off it. “Well, as far as last words go, one could do worse.” Neither Lestrade nor John had any response to that and instead of engaging them in conversation about their unfortunate mummy friend he stated, “I have to process this. I’m going to my mind palace.”

And without another word, Sherlock laid on the ground next to the coffin, closed his eyes and began to process.

 

///~\\\\\

 

“Mind palace,” John questioned Lestrade.

“It’s this thing he does when he needs to think. Practically dead to the world until he decides to be otherwise. He’ll likely be like that for hours.”

John nodded in acknowledgement. “Right. So, what do we do now?”

“Normally I’d bugger off and do something else. Gets rather boring watching him think like this. Doesn’t do much aside from a twitch or two every now and then, little incoherent mumblings if you’re lucky. But seeing as we’re under the desert in what may or maybe not cursed tomb, I’d rather not leave him.”

“Seems reasonable,” John agreed. He pointed a thumb at the mummy. “Can’t imagine being buried alive. That’s got to be absolute torture.”

Lestrade shivered. “Blimey, gives me the creeps thinking about it.”

Rather than discuss the fate of the mummy in question, Lestrade and John talked amiably about their lives. John discovered that Lestrade, like him, was former military. Had served a stint in the British military and when he was released he was aimless. He met Sherlock on a dig that neither of them were supposed to be on and got along rather well. Also like John, Lestrade occasionally turned to crime to subsidize his life when things got rough. Better to steal and sell an artifact back to whom you stole it from or to cheat at dice with rich drunks than to starve on the streets is how they saw it.

They talked until Sherlock twitched awake and searched over the entire wooden coffin. He scrutinized every marking, mumbling softly to himself as he worked. He reached into the coffin, to John’s disgust, grabbed something in his fist and left the room without another word.

“Guess that’s it for today, then,” Lestrade said goodnaturedly. “Dinner?”

“Starving,” John answered truthfully.

“Follow me, then. We’ll rustle up something in no time."

 

///~\\\\\

 

Sherlock held the scarab skeletons that were previously housed in the mummy’s coffin as he walked the city ruins. He walked the stiffness of laying on the stone floor of the tomb out of his limbs, puzzling over everything he had learned. He had never before ever heard of someone having all the apparent trimmings of a proper mummy but none of the fanfare. No name, no protection spells, no real tomb for him to be ensconced in, no amulets. Buried alive at the base of Anubis with nothing. Buried alive.

Why go through all the work of dressing him and encasing him in expensive boxes without actually killing him? Why not just drop him in a dry well or in the sand like other criminals. What was so special about this mummy? He eventually found his way back to his tent and searched through his books to see if there was something he missed, something not listed in his mind palace. He skimmed and scanned until his eyes fell on the words “Hom-Dai”, scribbled as an aside in the margins of a page. His mind raced to pick up the crumb and follow the trail in his mind. He could see it in his mind, the supposed process of cutting the person’s tongue, bandaging him like a mummy, making a mockery of his spirit with denying it the usual preparation for the afterlife. Everything clicked.

He smiled to himself at having figured it out and raced off to find his friends and tell them. When he exited the tent he found night had fallen sometime during his trip into his mind. He saw that neither of his companions where around their usual fire and that there was in fact no fire started in their site at all. He frowned knowing that the only other place they could be was at the other camp doing gods know what.

He walked as hurriedly as he could without looking like he was in a hurry. As he rounded one of the tents he heard grunting inside. The flap was open to reveal Moriarty struggling with something. He hadn’t noticed Sherlock’s presence and Sherlock watched as he grunted and groaned, trying unsuccessfully to pry something open. When his arms pulled away far enough for Sherlock to see what it was he gasped involuntarily.

Moriarty’s head shot up and when he saw who it was he smiled viciously. “Come to look at my new prize, Sherlock?”

“Not intentionally. Heard someone groaning and thought it might have been someone defiling a goat. Unfortunately, it’s just you. Shame, really.”

Moriarty chuckled, “oh Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” he tsked. “Always a poor loser.”

Sherlock forced himself to keep a neutral face. He noticed something that made him ecstatic on the inside but damn him if he would tell Moriarty that he knew he could get the book open. On the cover was a lock exactly like the one emblazoned on the mummy’s coffins. It stood to reason the key would work on the book as well. He pointed to the book and said, “better not strain yourself, you’ll need a key to open that book.” At that, he turned on his heel and made his way to the communal fire, hoping John and Lestrade were there.

His assumption paid off and there they sat, talking with their American friends. John saw him come up and Sherlock heard him bully Beni out of the seat next to him. “That’s his seat,” he said sharply. When Beni chuckled, not moving he said louder, “move it, now!”

Up Beni went, and down Sherlock sat.

“Scarab skeletons,” Sherlock said without preamble. He showed them to the group. “As we determined earlier, flesh eaters. They were entombed with our dear departed friend but, unfortunately for him, he was most likely alive when they started eating him.”

“So someone hated him enough to bury him with flesh eating bugs who slowly ate him alive.”

Sherlock nodded and concurred, “very slowly.”

“Certainly wasn’t a popular fellow was he,” Lestrade commented.

John chuckled, stoking the fire. “Probably got a little too frisky with the pharaoh’s daughter, I’d imagine.”

The group all chuckled in unison at the thought and Sherlock considered it for a moment. “That would fit the circumstances, yes. After much research I’ve concluded our friend suffered the Hom-Dai. Which is fascinating because I’ve never heard of such a curse ever actually been performed before. But everything fits, the mock of a mummy, his being buried alive, the state of the coffin. It was reserved for the most severe of blasphemers, ones who had sinned directly against the royal family and, by the extension, the gods. Pharaoh’s were a literal representation of the gods on earth. Every pharaoh had a patron god to whom his reign was dedicated. To harm a pharaoh was to harm that god. If the man buried down there hurt a pharaoh or his heir then that would be grounds for this particular curse.”

“This Hom-Dai must have been truly terrible for them to have never used it,” John commented.

“Curses carry weight, John. They feared it and rightfully so for those who believed in it. It’s written in the stories that if a recipient of the Hom-Dai should ever rise from the dead that he’d bring with him the ten plagues of Egypt.”

“Cheerful fellows, the ancients,” Lestrade said, handing Sherlock a bowl of soup.

From there the night rolled on with the Americans boasting of their find and what they would do with the jars they found and what other riches they might find in the depths of the city. It took ages for everyone to agree that it was time to settle down to sleep. Sherlock steered them so that they would travel past Moriarty’s tent. Dropping behind the two men, Sherlock peeked in the tent and saw to his pleasant surprise that Moriarty was asleep and clutching the book like a security blanket.

He caught up a few paces and then told his companions, “you know, I think I forgot something back at the fire. You two go on, I’ll be along in a moment.”

Not entirely convinced Sherlock wasn’t up to something, they left him and Sherlock darted back to the tent once they were out of sight. He checked the area to be sure no one else was around before creeping inside. With deft fingers and bated breath, Sherlock eased the book away from Moriarty. He climbed out of the tent in triumph and hurried back to his site to open it before Moriarty woke without it.

When he returned to their camp he found John lying in the sand asleep and no sign of Lestrade. Carefully so as not to wake John, he set the book down near the fire and he went rummaging through Lestrade’s things to find the key.

A voice startled him. “That’s called stealing, you know.”

Sherlock sniffed, “according to you and Lestrade, it’s called borrowing.” Finding the key he made his way back to the book and set it on his lap.

John crawled over to sit by him. “Thought the Book of Amun Ra was made of gold.”

Sherlock prodded the box to find the button to open it. “It is made of gold. This isn’t the Book of Amun Ra.” The key snapped open and Sherlock laid it on it’s lock.

John laid a hand over Sherlock’s, preventing him from turning the lock. “Care to explain what this is then? Should we be messing around with this thing?”

Sherlock gently brushed John’s hand off him and turned the lock. “I think this is the Book of the Dead. Something that’s not supposed to exist.”

John pursed his lips. “Right, so we’re in a city of the dead that “doesn’t exist”, a mummy that has a curse that has “never been performed”, and now we have a book that “doesn’t exist”. Do you think that maybe we shouldn’t be playing with this and leave things well alone?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and gesture. “It’s just a book, John. No harm ever came from reading a book.” He turned the lock and the hinges snapped open. “You’re about to be party to the most amazing discovery in history, John Watson.”

“Why am I not encouraged by that,” John said with a groan.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock’s finger tips trembled as he brushed the polished grooves in the stone slabs of the book. His eye darted from one pictograph to the next, entirely unsure of where he would like to begin his deciphering. The likelihood of Moriarty getting his gang of unruly, trigger-happy Americans to come and reclaim the book was high and he wanted to spend every moment he could memorizing, decoding, _worshipping_ , the book in his hands.

He licked his lips and flicked his eyes over to John with a small smirk, “I guess we should start at the beginning.”

He pointed to the first set of hieroglyphs and sad, “here they talk about the cycle of the sun and moon, the day and night. There’s a mention of Ra and his daily triumph over Apep.” His fingers drifted to another set and said, “these mention Osiris and Anubis, and their roles in the afterlife.”

“Very impressive,” John said with a grin. “Well, go on then. Show off for me, you great peacock.”

Sherlock blushed at that but cleared his throat and read a text aloud. His tongue caressed the ancient words of a resurrection spell, finishing it with the phrase, “ _yatueh, yatueh, yatueh._ ”

The world went deadly silent. Radio silence.

Then all at once the wind picked up, the camels started groaning in concern, horses whinnied in distress. A voice rang out from the American camp that the book was missing. Moriarty was awake and coming soon for the book. Sherlock, knowing they did not have much time, slammed the book closed, locking it, and pocketing the key just before Moriarty stormed into their camp.

“I knew you couldn’t keep away from it,” Moriarty said, stalking predatorily towards them. John immediately jumped to his feet to stand between him and Sherlock. Sherlock stood, leveling his eyes at Moriarty. “Look at you, Sherlock, taking things that don’t belong to you.” He wagged a finger at him, clucking his tongue in mock-chiding. “Naughty boy.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” Sherlock spat back.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea of what you’re speaking of, Sherlock. I’ve always been a good sport.” He reached down, grabbing the book harshly and holding it protectively against his chest. “Just wait until I tell all of Cairo of your greedy, grasping behavior on this dig. You’ll slide aaaall,” he dragged out the word with a vicious grin, “the way back to that couch in Alexandria again.”

John moved towards him, fist raised and ready to strike him when the frightened shrieks of men pulled them from their angry bubble. All three turned their heads to see a moving, black wall in the moonlight moving quickly towards Hamunaptra.

“Is that a sandstorm,” Sherlock asked, suddenly scared. He had never been caught in such a storm and knew they could be deadly.

John shook his head, mouth agape. “No. That’s no storm.”

And then the wall broke upon the walls of Hamunaptra. Millions of locusts descended upon the camp, biting everyone in sight and consuming everything resembling food.

John turned and reached in the tent to rouse Lestrade. “We need to get out of here! Up, up up!” One arm on Lestrade, pushing him towards the entrance to the tombs, and the other with his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s wrist, he guided them to the relative safety of the underground. Everyone in the city had similar designs and there was soon a river of terrified humans running deep into the depths of the city to escape the sudden onset of locusts.

The three Brits were pushed along with the tide of people and listened as the Americans shouted at each other.

“Where did they all come from,” Burns shouted.

“I don’t know,” Davis responded.

“But I ain’t stickin’ around to find out,” Henderson assured.

Sherlock lost track of Lestrade and Moriarty but John’s presence at his back, holding him while they ran, kept him from panicking. They would find Lestrade and somehow find a way to reclaim the book and they would make a swift retreat back to Cairo where Mycroft would ensure the protection of the book, especially from Moriarty. He was reasonably sure he could convince Mycroft to let him study it, almost exclusively, in peace. He focused on that thought as he ran.

Distantly, he heard Burns fall, calling out for help to find his glasses in the dark. John wanted to stop and help him but Sherlock pressed him on. “He’s a grown man, John, he’ll be fine!” And so on they ran.

After a minute they found Lestrade up further ahead and they ran ahead to collect him. Sherlock took control from there, leading them off to a different corridor, deeper into the city than any of them had previously been.

“Come on, there’s no telling if the locusts are going to follow this far into the tombs. Unlikely, considering there’s no food down here, but I’d rather not get be bitten by one. They have tremendous mandibles that can leave a nasty mark.”

“I’d like to second Burns’ question,” Lestrade remarked. “Where on earth did they come from?”

“I honestly could not tell you,” Sherlock answered truthfully. “There’s nothing out here for them to eat. It’s a desert, sparse, no grains or grasses growing for them to swarm on like that. It’s extremely vexing.”

They rounded the corner on a tunnel, exploring the tomb by torchlight when a mound began to rise up in front of them. Dumbstruck, they watched it rise up, inch by inch, until an explosion of black beetles spewed from the mound like lava from a volcano.

“Scarabs,” Sherlock confirmed, turning to run down the hallway that stretched behind them. When the two men noticed that he was running, they were quick to join him.

“Why are we running from them,” John shouted, “I thought you said they didn’t eat live people!”

“And yet there was one inside Anderson’s head! I don’t know what is going on with the insect life of this bloody city but I’d rather not chance ending up like Anderson, do you?”

The trio ran into an open antechamber that had a steep drop-off on either side of the walkway. On each side were platforms carved from the bedrock itself where presumably statues has once stood. Now empty, they made for a perfect escape.

“Jump to the side,” Sherlock shouted at his friends. Sherlock jumped to the one that hugged a wall while Lestrade and John jumped to the one in the middle of the drop-off.

Sherlock clutched his head in aggravation. “Are you two complete idiots! Why would you jump to the one where certain death laid on all sides!”

“Excuse us for following orders to jump!,” Lestrade shouted back.

They watched as a seemingly endless stream of beetles flooded past them, fear evident on each of them. Sherlock leaned against the rock, pressing himself as far as he could away from them. He couldn’t think through his fear, he had never heard of locusts swarming without precedent and he had never heard of hoards of scarabs that ate live flesh. But he had seen both and he wracked his brain for an explanation.

His hand groped the wall behind him for a handhold to keep him steady and then suddenly he was being flung into a dark cavern and away from his friends. Absolute darkness enveloped him and fear clutched at his heart. _How the hell do I get out of this one_ , he asked himself. He had no answer to speak of.

 

///~\\\\\

 

Sherlock searched for several minutes for the secret switch to operate the trick door - _honestly, trick doors?!_ \- without success. He slammed his fist against the rock, hoping to jar something loose but only succeeded in hurting his hand. He hissed in pain, shaking out the ache and looked around him, trying to find something in the encompassing darkness.

He held one hand to the wall and shuffled along in the darkness, trying to find a way back to where John and Lestrade were no doubt panicking at his disappearance. He assumed they had not noticed him being flung into the corridor he currently traversed. _Idiots_ , he thought grimly. _They see but they do not observe. Wouldn’t surprise me if I rot here. That’d be a nice treat for future explorers. A nice ‘Sherlock’ mummy, preserved by the dry, warm conditions of the desert, protected by the tomb. That is, you would be if the scarabs don’t find you first. That’s more likely to happen. Being dinner for a swarm of scarabs who clearly have no qualms on feasting on anything living or dead. You think they’ll wait for you to be dead before they start their munching? Doubtful._

Sherlock’s internal monologue was interrupted by a pained groaning and shuffling in the distance. Sherlock could see a faint gray light up ahead of him and walked quicker to find the source of the sound. Rounding the corner he saw a crossroads in the tunnel where the ceiling caved in and the moonlight streamed down into the hallway. In the center of the fork, facing away from Sherlock, stood Burns.

“Oh, Mister Burns,” Sherlock said, relief flooding through him at the sight of another human. “I’m glad to have found you. Do you know where they others are?”

Burns turned to face him and Sherlock had to swallow a scream at the sight.

Bloody, gaping holes took up residence where Burns’ eyes were previously, his face swollen from the trauma. Then Burns tried to speak, a trickle of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth. He sounded as if he were crying but only blood flowed in place of tears.

“My -ongue,” Burns moaned. “He’s got my -ongue!”

Burns dropped to his knees, unable to support himself any longer. Sherlock took two steps towards him in an effort to help him when, from out of the shadows, another body stepped between them.

This time he did scream.

_This can’t be real, this can’t be real, you’re hallucinating! Dead bodies do not walk, mummies do no walk they do not walk they do not walk!_

Sherlock backed away from the decaying body that moved just as swiftly towards him until his back hit a wall.

He swallowed thickly, able to smell the rot on the mummy, he could hear the slickness of the decaying tissue as it moved. The most unsettling part of watching the mummy up and moving was the fact that it’s eyes were perfect.

Everything suddenly clicked. The missing eyes and tongue from Burns, and the intact eyes on the mummy. Somehow he had been able to steal from Burns what he needed and was able to incorporate them seamlessly. Another scream choked him but he refused to give it voice.

In a gravely, harsh voice the mummy spoke to him. “Ank-Su-Namun.”

 

///~\\\\\

 

John saw at the last second Sherlock falling behind a trap door and felt his heart drop into his stomach. Once the beetles were well away, he and Lestrade jumped over to where Sherlock had stood and searched frantically for the button that would either bring him back or bring them to him. But after several minutes of pounding, proding and banging, they still couldn’t find their way in.

“Leave it to Sherlock to find the one defective trap door in the whole godforsaken place,” Lestrade groaned, tapping bricks over and over, trying to find a way in.

Screaming from the tunnel the beetles had escaped through distracted them and then Henderson and Davis exploded out, shouting at them. “Run you sons o’ bitches!” Henderson flew by him without any further warning.

John said in a distracted, plain tone, “run,” and then they were back on the pathway heading back the way they had come.

Terrified, pained shrieking drew their attention and they watched as a swarm of beetles engulfed a poor digger. The flailing stopped within seconds and his voice quieted. The click-clacking of beetles was all that could be heard and it made John ill. He pushed Lestrade onward and said, “we need to find Sherlock and get the hell out of here! Now!”

“I heartily agree, mate,” Lestrade answered.

They strained their ears for clues of Sherlock’s whereabouts, and after a few minutes of blind running, they came to a corner that lead them down a corridor. John could hear then what he had desperately been waiting for; Sherlock’s voice.

“Please don’t leave me,” his small voice carried out.

John barreled into the space, not registering anything other than Sherlock, relieved to find him. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge his presence, his eyes focused elsewhere but John refused to stop and smell the roses when there were flesh-eating bugs on their tail.

“Hide and seek time is over, Sherlock, time to go!” He grabbed his arm and tried to pull him away but when neither Sherlock’s body or gaze budged, John made himself stare down whatever was holding him there.

Unbidden, an exclamation of surprise erupted from him. “Shit,” he whispered to himself.

The creature in front of them opened it’s mouth and spoke in a language that John couldn’t understand. And then his brain caught up with his eyes, registering what he was seeing.

A walking, talking mummy.

The same mummy they had unearthed just mere hours earlier.

John tried to pull Sherlock away from the mummy’s gaze and the creature screamed at him in displeasure.

John did the only thing that he deemed sensible to do.

He screamed back as loudly and angrily as he could muster and shot it directly in where its heart should have been. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and tugged him along as he guided them towards the exit. “Time to leave the funhouse from fucking hell,” he shouted.

He heard more feet pounding behind him and a quick look back confirmed that Lestrade and the Americans were right behind him. They exited the tombs at a run, making for their camps to pack quickly and make their escape. They only got a few feet before a wall of men clad in black and brandishing guns greeted them.

The man John had encountered the night before stepped above the line, ire shining in his eyes. His mouth twisted in a grimace before he spoke. “I told you to leave or die. You refused.” He shook his head, “and now you may have killed us all.”

“What are you talking about,” John asked in a guarded voice.

Another man stepped forward with Moriarty and threw him to the ground. The Egyptologist looked frantically around him, arms clutched around The Book, his eyes darting everywhere for an escape. The leader pointed to him and said, “this man tells me that you,” he then pointed at Sherlock, “read aloud from the book. You’ve raised the creature that we have feared for more than 3,000 years.” J

ohn pointed a thumb back the way they came, “you mean the walking, talking mummy back there? I got him. Shot him myself.”

“No mortal weapon can kill this creature! He’s not of this world!”

A murmuring in the crowd of men rippled through them and then two men came through carrying a barely conscious Burns deposited him in his friends’ arms. The two men looked incensed and out for blood at the sight of their wounded friend.

“What the hell did you do to him,” Davis shouted.

“We saved him,” the leader shouted back. “Saved him before the creature could finish the job. I suggest you all leave here immediately before he comes for you as well.” He shouted a word of command to the men behind him in arabic and they stood in formation to push past the band of explorers. “We must now go on the hunt and try to find a way to kill the creature.”

“But he said he shot him,” Lestrade pointed out, unhelpfully.

The leader rounded on him, getting in Lestrade’s personal space. “Know this,” he said ominously, “this creature is the bringer of death. He will never eat. He will never sleep. And he will never stop until the world is a wasteland.”

Without another word, the men made their way into the tomb, leaving the explorers scrambling to pack the absolute bare necessities for them to last the trip back to civilization.


	11. Chapter 11

The Americans and Brits traveled together for safety as they fled Hamunaptra. In unspoken agreement, they all rode camels and they rode them hard, stopping for only the most necessary amount of time to let their camels rest so they wouldn’t drop from exhaustion. During their breaks no one slept. They didn’t speak, they barely ate, they comforted the blinded Mister Burns, and constantly looked over their shoulders for any trace of their black-clad assailants or the resurrected mummy.

Once they returned to town they went their separate ways to make their retreat from an impending apocalypse.

Or, in Sherlock’s case, tried to convince his friends to stay and find a solution to their mummy problem.

John would hear nothing of the sort. He plowed into their room with a single-minded drive that was hell bent on getting them out of danger as quickly as possible. He grabbed clothes from the closet and went to fill an empty trunk. “I thought you didn’t believe in curses or spells or any of that ‘nonsense’.”

One of the many cats that populated the hotel to keep down the rodent population defiantly blinked at him from inside the trunk. Sherlock scooped the cat up and clutched it to his chest and said, “forgive me if I’ve had a change of heart.” He gently deposited the cat on the bed and then went to gather the clothes out of the trunk, efficiently emptying it. “But conversing with a walking, talking corpse does tend to convert one.”

“Whatever it is that you’re thinking, put it out of your head right now,” John warned, filling the same trunk with a handful of books. “We are not staying where the center of the apocalypse is happening. We are leaving.”

“Oh no, we are not,” Sherlock argued as he emptied the chest once more.

“Oh yes, we are,” John countered, dropping more clothes into the chest. S

herlock huffed and scooped them out again, dropping them dismissively on the floor. “We woke him up and we are going to put him down again!”

“We?” John rounded angrily on Sherlock. He stepped toe to toe with the man, head tipped up to glare into his eyes. “What we? I warned you to leave well enough alone, didn’t I?” He pushed a finger into Sherlock’s chest to punctuate the point, “you opened the book,” another sharp poke, “you had to read the inscriptions,” he jabbed once more, “you brought that thing back, not me!”

“Fine!” Sherlock twirled his arms in the air, emphatically, “it was me, me, me, all my fault, I woke him up with no prodding from anyone else,” he glared back at John. John then felt a small twinge of guilt. _Well, go on then. Show off for me, you great, peacock_. Still. It wasn’t like he spoke the words aloud. Sherlock stood in front of him, defiant and resolute in his decision. “I woke him up and I intend to stop him.”

John stalked off, grabbing more things to shove in the empty trunk in an effort to dissuade Sherlock. “And just how do you intend to do that? Did you not hear the guy?” He pointed off towards the desert from whence they came. “No mortal weapons can kill that thing. I shot it point blank and was told it would have no effect. You can’t fight something like that!”

Sherlock stood with his fists on his hips defiantly. “Well, we’ll just have to find something that can.”

John sighed deeply, resigned to and resenting his fate. Damn his “white knight” nature. “There goes that ‘we’ again.”

Sherlock growled in frustration and anger and chased John around the room as he tried to escape Sherlock’s ranting. “According to the book once the creature has risen he will devour everything in his path until the whole of the earth is destroyed!”

“And how is that my problem,” John shouted over his shoulder at his pursuer.

“Are you or are you not an inhabitant of this earth?” He shoved John roughly, trying to get the man to look at him. “It is everyone’s problem, as far as I’m concerned.”

John didn’t want to admit it, but he was scared. He was scared of losing his life when he had just reclaimed it. When _Sherlock_ had just claimed it. Even if the man didn’t know it yet. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes before opening his mouth again. “Sherlock, this is not my battle. This is not my mission. My mission was to bring you out there,” he pointed towards Hamunaptra, “and to bring you back.” He straightened himself into a military stance. “And I have done that. End of contract, end of story.”

Sherlock looked stricken at his words, like he had physically slapped him. “Is that what I am to you? A contract?”

The hurt was not concealed in his voice. “No,” John told him flatly. He wouldn’t, couldn’t elaborate. He wouldn’t pour his heart out to Sherlock when he was doing his damnedest to throw himself into the path of an undead mummy. He doubted his feelings for him would make any difference. “But I am giving you a choice. You can either come with me and let those men out there do their job, which by the way is the sensible thing to do. Or you can stay here and try to save the world.” He straightened his coat and asked, “which is it to be, then?”

Sherlock’s face moved into something immobile and without emotion. He took a step back, closing off anything they had before and removing himself from John. “I’m staying.”

John pursed his lips, unhappy but not surprised. “Right, then.”

He strode out the door and into the hall towards the bar. End of the world was coming, time for a drink.

 

///~\\\\\

 

Their hotel was a converted piece of the Royal Air Force compound. It had originally been some sultan’s holiday home. As such, it had all the trimmings of royalty that had been divided for mass consumption. A courtyard with a costly fountain, a garden, many lavish sitting rooms with their own purposes. One of them had been converted into a bar and John made a beeline for it.

When he entered the dim but lively room he heard a familiar face rowing on and on to some poor female entertainer about his glory days in the RAF. He waved absentmindedly to him, “hey Winston,” before stalking across to the room to the bar.

Winston followed along, drunk and not registering John’s anger, fear, and disinterest in the old pilot’s raving. “You know, Watson,” he clapped him on the back as they reached the bar. “Since the Great War, there hasn’t been a single challenge worthy of a man like me,” he said in a proud but resigned tone.

John ordered a whiskey and huffed, “we all have our little problems today, then.”

Lestrade joined him and raised a glass in mock-toast. “Cor, you could say that again.”

When John’s drink arrived, John motioned for the bartender to leave the bottle and they clinked glasses before taking a sip. Winston went on about his wish to die in the sand with his buddies and lamented his self-imposed fate of sitting around the fort dying of boredom and booze. He snatched the glass from John’s hand, downed it in one and cheerily made his goodbyes. John took a steadying breath and poured himself another. “Sherlock doesn’t let up, does he?”

“Never. Not once in his life,” Lestrade agreed.

Not a moment later the two uninjured Americans joined them at the bar. Henderson signalled for beer and said, “we’re all packed up but the damn boat don’t leave til tomorrow.”

Lestrade grinned mirthlessly, “tail set firmly between your legs, I see.”

Henderson scowled at him. “Easy for you to be so chipper, pal. You don’t have some sacred walking corpse after you.”

John, refusing to acknowledge Sherlock’s part in the nastiness asked Davis how Burns was doing. Davis told him as he looked into his own pint with unseeing eyes, “he had his eyes and his tongue ripped out.” He swallowed visibly. “How would you be.”

John nodded, solemnly. “Not too well, I’d imagine.”

“Not too well, indeed,” Davis concurred.

The four of them drank silently together for half an hour. The patrons around them carried on, completely unaware that the end of the world was slowing encroaching upon them while the four of them drank with a haunted air. At length they all decided it was best if they retired to their rooms. Davis said, “we should be getting back to see if Burns needs anything. Poor man can barely stomach tea, with his mouth still all tore up like it is.”

John and Lestrade understood and agreed that they should check on Sherlock and see if they could convince him to see sense.

“One more drink, gents. For good luck,” Lestrade offered. They poured out one more round and clinked their glasses and took a sip.

They spit out the liquid immediately, the irony taste of blood taking the place of amber whiskey.

Everyone in the bar had done just the same and a chorus of cursing and fearful murmuring filled the bar. Henderson wiped his mouth, using his sleeve to scrub his tongue. “Jesus, that tasted just like,” then his his eyes went wide when he realized what he was saying.

“Blood,” John finished for him, dropping his glass to the bar

. His eyes bored into the fountain at the center of the room. No longer did it elegantly spurt clear, cool water into the air. Now it gurgled blood, the red liquid oozing thickly through the spout and over the sides of the fountain.

Lestrade quoted from the bible, “ _...and the rivers and waters of Egypt ran red, and were as blood._ ”

John swallowed dryly. He remembered what Sherlock had said. If a recipient of the Hom-Dai should ever arise, he would bring with him the ten plagues of Egypt. Locusts, rivers of blood. Two plagues already down.

“He’s here,” he said with a hint of fear.

 

///~\\\\\

 

Sherlock wandered the compound, books in hand, desperately searching through his texts to try and find something that could help them put their apocalyptic mummy to rest. Nose stuck in his book he nearly ran directly into John. Sherlock sniffed and tried to walk around him, “so you’re still here. I wonder why.”

“We have a problem,” John said, obviously about to start on a story. But then the sky opened up and it stole their attention entirely.

Out of nowhere, hail rained down upon them, clattering the pavement, breaking windows, and harming civilians. Bolts of angry, red fire spiked into buildings and the few trees in the compound. Sherlock’s eyes widened in fear and his heart beat a frantic rhythm, his hands clutching the books in his hands to avoid reaching out to John. He watched in horror and lightening struck everything that stood more than a few feet off the ground, leaving blooms of fire in its wake.

The world was on fire and Sherlock was terrified.

Behind him they heard feet pounding down the stairs and both he and John turned to see Beni racing down them. When Beni saw their faces he tried to run back up the stairs but John leapt into action. He took to the stairs and pinned Beni against a wall and asked him what he was doing there. Beni shook his head, refusing to talk. John shook him, demanding him to talk when a great, echoing roar tore into the air. John and Sherlock looked up towards the hotels upper rooms where it sounded from and, in their distraction, Beni jerked free from John’s hold and took off without another word.

They raced up the stairs, searching for the source of the roar and, finding one door wide open, they entered it. Inside, they found the dry, emaciated corpse of what had been Burns, sitting fully dressed in his chair. And behind him, leaning on the fireplace for support, was their mummy.

His body rippled and writhed as the new tissue filled in the spaces of his body. New muscle groups formed and knitted over the bones and he began to look less like a piece of firewood and more like a human made of modeling clay. Sherlock covered his mouth in horror, trying to squash down the instinct to scream. He was unused to feeling fear on a near consistent basis. He was a man of logic, a man of science. He met everything with reason and calm. There was no reasoning a literal creature of nightmares.

When the rippling of the mummy stopped he turned to face them and Sherlock looked to John for guidance of how to proceed. Ever the soldier, John brandished two handguns and stared down his enemy. Sherlock pressed close to him, chest to back and whispered, “those are loaded this time, right?”

“Don’t be an idiot, of course they are,” John hissed back. “Not that they’ll do much good if our friends in the desert are correct.”

Behind them, the sounds of running, stomping feet on the tiled floor signaled the arrival of the remaining Americans and Lestrade. They burst into the room with mixed levels of shouting in surprised fear. The mummy roared in displeasure at being cornered and began walking towards John. John fired automatically, hoping that at least one of his bullets would put the creature down. But as, one by one, the bullets ripped into the new tissue of the mummy’s body, he began to realize they really had no effect. The mummy reached out with both hands and knocked John aside like a sack of laundry and he flew across the room to knock into the men at the door. He groaned in pain, head reeling as he tried to right himself and protect Sherlock.

He watched from the doorway as the mummy backed Sherlock against a bookcase and spoke to him. The mummy leaned in, voice less raspy than before, and spoke to Sherlock. Sherlock, kept his eyes locked on the mummy, body stiff against the bookshelf, trying desperately to keep as much distance as possible between them. And then the mummy leaned in as if he were going to kiss Sherlock and anger shot through John. It forced him to his feet and take a step towards the mummy.

Breaking the tension of the scene, the sound of clumsy piano notes sounded out and drew everyone’s attention to the piano in the center of the room. A cat walked across as cool as can be, enjoying the noise it was making. But a shocked gasp of breath drew everyone’s attention back to the mummy and, in the blink of an eye, the mummy dissolved into sand and rushed in a whirlwind out the window.

Sherlock stared at the window long after the mummy had left, unhearing and unseeing until John placed himself directly in front of him. He cupped Sherlock’s face and then Sherlock’s eyes refocused themselves on John and he let go a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. John asked, obviously for not the first time, “are you okay?”

Sherlock nodded, still recovering from his shock. “What did it say to you,” John asked.

Sherlock licked his dry lips, “he thanked me for releasing him from the underworld.” Finally gathering his wits, he closed his eye and shook his head free of the image and said, “we need some serious help. We need to leave here, immediately.”

Lestrade asked, unconvinced, “and where do we go? Who do you think can help us?”

Sherlock had made his way to the doorway but stopped just before going through and answered. “There’s only one person I can think of who would know anything helpful about this.” He sighed and said, “much as it pains me to admit, we need Mycroft.”

 

///~\\\\\

 

They were able to charter a bus back to Cairo. The boat was cheaper but the bus was faster and in that moment what they needed was speed. No need for money when the world might end at any moment. They drove on through the night and when they arrived at the station in Cairo they procured a vehicle to drive them to the museum.

As they drove up the drive to the museum Sherlock had a hard time believing that it had only been less than two weeks since he last laid eyes upon the building and yet so much had changed. He had gone on his first unsupervised dig. And look at how well that had turned out. He had unleashed the apocalypse and it unnerved him. Maybe he should never be allowed out into the world, maybe he didn’t deserve to be out in society around people. All he did was cause problems. And now, because of his need to prove himself, he had gone and recited a resurrection spell and put everyone on earth in danger. The thought did not sit lightly with him.

After Lestrade put the car into park, he automatically bolted from the car and made for his brother’s office, knowing the rest of them would follow.

“Sherlock,” John tried to get his attention. After receiving no answer he grabbed Sherlock’s arm and Sherlock slowed enough for John to catch up but didn’t stop. “Sherlock, how can your brother help us? He doesn’t even know what’s happening.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said confidently. He couldn’t entertain the possibility that this time, this one time, Mycroft didn’t know everything. “Mycroft knows everything about everything and if there’s anyone who can help us it’s him.” He lead them up the stairs into one of the main exhibits on the way to the offices and was brought up short by the leader of their attackers conversing calmly with Mycroft. Immediately John’s arm was up with a pistol in it and it was soon joined by Lestrade’s and the Americans’ guns.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed audibly. Sherlock, startled by the man’s presence in the museum asked plainly, “what’s he doing here?”

Mycroft smirked at the question. “Do you really want to know or would you prefer to just,” he gestured to the guns, “shoot us?”

John thought about it and decided, ultimately, that information was more important that past transgressions. Especially when one was found to be more in the wrong than the other. He holstered his gun and the others followed suit.

“Start talking,” John said gruffly. Then, thinking better of it added, “if you don’t mind.”

“Then we should retire my office,” Mycroft said civilly. He led the way and all the while they briefed him on what occurred in Hamunaptra and beyond, ending with the death of Mister Burns. When they filed into Mycroft’s office, the Americans sitting on the couch before being offered a seat. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at them as if to silently scold them for being rude but didn’t give the comment voice. Instead he offered a seat to their black-clad friend, Lestrade, John and his brother and once they were all seated and quiet he began his speech.

He gestured to the man in black and said, “this is Ardeth, my brother in arms.” He clasped his hands in front of his face and rested his chin on them. “We are part of a secret society, the Medjai, whose mission is to prevent the High Priest Imhotep from being reborn. Our mission was to protect the world from the understandable, but misplaced, wrath of the ancients’ curse.”

Ardeth interjected with, “and now because of you, we have failed.”

“Calm yourself, Ardeth. Not all is lost yet,” Mycroft said, trying to calm him. Sherlock stood from his chair and began to pace. Mycroft explained the story of Imhotep and Sherlock kept finding himself sneaking glances at John. As the story progressed John grew paler until he was almost green.

When Mycroft finished he cleared his throat and said, “I heard this story once three years ago. By a man who was helping my platoon.” He shook his head, lips pursed in concern, “I didn’t believe it.”

“We have tried very hard to erase Hamunaptra from the serious histories. Tried to discount and discredit every story of it and Imhotep in an attempt to squash interest in the city,” Mycroft told him in a placating voice. “There was no reason for you to have believed in something that we had shaped into a fairytale.”

“And yet you knew it was real,” Sherlock said angrily. He paced in front of Mycroft’s desk, fury swirling in him. “You knew. You knew and yet you did everything in your power to convince me I was a silly boy with a fairytale when I had real proof!” He slammed his hands on the desk and looked at his brother. “Why didn’t you tell me? All of this could have been avoided if you had told me! I would have believed you.”

“Would you?” Mycroft asked the question as if he knew the answer. “Brother mine, you have pushed and pushed against all my help and advice whenever I have tried to give it. Your pride has always gotten the best of you. If I had told you the truth you would have just thought I was playing a trick on you and gone off, anyway.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand and sat back in his chair and said. “Furthermore, I could not break my vows to the brotherhood. It is a secret society for a reason, Sherlock. It had to remain secret.”

“Then why tell us now,” Sherlock countered.

Mycroft shrugged and stood. “The world is about to end, baby brother. Secrets seem rather unnecessary at this point. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He resumed his silently seething pacing.

John asked a question that had been niggling at him since the event in Mister Burns’ room. “I have a question. Unrelated to your little boy scout troop,” John said with an annoyed air. “Why doesn’t he like cats?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Cats are guardians of the underworld. They protect souls in their travels and his is cursed. He will fear them until he’s fully regenerated.”

“And then he will fear nothing,” Ardeth added.

“And you know how he’ll get himself fully regenerated,” Davis said full of righteous anger and fear.

“By killing everyone who opened that chest,” Henderson answered, distractedly.

“And suckin’ them dry! That’s how!” Davis huffed and began pacing with Sherlock.

A thought pulled Sherlock from his thoughts and he came to a stop, fingers tented in front of his lips. “This didn’t occur to me before since I didn't know the story but now I fear this is very relevant to us. Particularly to me.” He stood in the center of the room and focused on his brother. “When I first saw him at Hamunaptra he called me ‘Ank-Su-Namun’. He thanked me for freeing him, called me a prince and just now in Mister Burns’ quarters he tried to kiss me.”

Mycroft looked to Ardeth and spoke to him. “It was because of his love for Ank-Su-Namun that he was cursed. It seems that even after three thousand years,” he trailed off.

“He is still in love with her,” Ardeth finished.

“Oh how very romantic,” Sherlock spat, fingers curled under his chin, arms crossed. He resumed his pacing. “But what’s that got to do with me? I’m very clearly not the woman he loves. Why would he say her name in relation to me?”

Ardeth ignored him and continued to stare down Mycroft. “Once he’s regenerated he might try once more to raise her from the dead.”

Mycroft sighed, and shook his head. “And it appears he’s chosen his human sacrifice.” He looked at his brother with a mixture of fear and pity. “Bad luck baby brother,” he said quietly.

Sherlock stood in there, mid pace, and stared back at him, horror plain on his face. Panic spiked through him and paralyzed him, rooting him to the spot. He couldn’t think. The possibility that he might fail in mission to stop the creature and stop the world from coming to an end, and be the sacrifice that would bring some guy’s illegitimate girlfriend back from the dead…

Sherlock couldn’t think enough to process the notion. Nor could he come up with a plan of attack. All of this had come about because of him. And he was terrified.

At length, Mycroft spoke. “Perhaps I may have misspoke.”

“Oh, what now? I’m no longer a sacrifice,” Sherlock spat sarcastically.

“Tragically, you still are. However, this may bide us time to find a solution to our undead friend. Once he’s regenerated his main focus would be to resurrect Ank-Su-Namun. If we can keep you out of his reach until we find a way to kill him, we just may have a shot at saving humanity.”

The skylight above them grew dark rapidly and suddenly. They all looked up and Ardeth said, “we will need to end this soon. His powers are growing.” They watched as the moon blocked the sun in an eclipse and clouds rolled in over it, effectively pulling a dark curtain over the world.

“ _'And he stretched forth his hand towards the heavens'_ ,” Lestrade quoted, “ _'And there was darkness throughout the land of Egypt'_.”

 

///~\\\\\

 

After the revelation of Imhotep and his intentions and the particulars of the curse, Mycroft released them to the relative protection of the nearby military fort. If anywhere will be safe enough for my brother, for now, it will be there, he had said. The five men regrouped in one large suite and talked out a strategy for ending the apocalypse. “We need to find a way to slow him down,” Sherlock said, barging into their rooms. “Who else opened the chest?”

“Well there was me and Davis,” Henderson said. “And Burns, of course.”

John strode to the window, looking out over the fort. “What about my mate, Beni?”

“Naw,” Davis said with no small amount of contempt. “He scrammed outta there before we even opened the damn thing.”

Henderson chuckled, settling into a chair at the communal table, “yeah, he was the smart one.”

John nodded, not looking back at them. “That sounds like Beni. Running away from danger the moment he smells it.”

“Some people consider that a smart thing,” Lestrade commented, wryly.

“Or cowardice,” Sherlock said under his breath. John smiled at the comment, agreeing full heartedly.

“There was also the Egyptologist feller,” Davis added.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock cursed. He groaned, clenching his fists at his sides, then running his fingers through his hair. “Much as it pains me, we need to keep him from Imhotep’s clutches.” He straightened his jacket, buttoning it with purpose. “We’ll just have to find him and bring him back here before Imhotep can get to him.”

John turned around when Sherlock said that and decided then and there that Sherlock was going nowhere. He joined the rest of the group in their cluster around the table and said, “right then, you,” he pointed to Sherlock, “stay here. You three,” he pointed to the other men, “come with me.”

The room erupted in excited yelling. Sherlock was adamant that he join the search and the other three were just as adamant that Moriarty fend for himself. Not used to having his orders questioned he shouted, “ _enough!_ ”

The room went silent. “It makes sense to have multiple people looking for him. He needs to be found before he can aid Imhotep in regenerating as he won’t come here willingly. And Sherlock,” he looked at him softly. “You can’t be left exposed where you can be captured. I can’t lose you,” he said before he could stop himself. He cleared his throat and added, “we can’t let you get caught.”

“All the same,” Sherlock countered haughtily, “you’ll not leave me here like a piece of luggage. I am fully capable of defending myself. I’ll not have you, my brother, or anyone else continue to tell me what I can and cannot do! I am a grown man, John! Not a child for you to babysit!”

John smirked, “oh, I’m not babysitting.” He strode right up to him. Without a word of warning, he bent a little at the waist and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and threw him over his shoulder. The squawk of indignity that Sherlock released when he was scooped up brought a real smile to his face. That was short lived, however, as the fist that pounded into his back as Sherlock flailed in an attempt to get free made him wince in pain. Without ceremony, he walked into a bedroom just off the main room and dropped Sherlock onto the bed.

“John Watson, you utter bastard! You are not going to leave me here,” he said just before John closed the door on him. He twisted the key that was helpfully sitting in the lock, ignoring the pounding on the door.

He turned to Davis and said, “this door does not open til we get back. He doesn’t come out and no one goes in, right?”

Davis nodded, “right.”

John looked at Henderson, “right?” Henderson agreed with him and John smiled. “That’s settled.” He dropped the key in Davis’ hand and walked towards the door to the hall. “Come on, Lestrade. We’ve got an Egyptologist to find.”

“Personally, I think he’s a tosser and you should let him rot,” Lestrade said, uninterested in leaving.

“Be that as it may, our dear departed and reanimated friend does not need to be anymore powerful, agreed?”

Lestrade groaned heavily and levered himself out of his chair. “Fine. Fine!” He slung his jacket on and followed John out the door, into the night, in search of Moriarty.


	12. Chapter 12

Before John and Lestrade left the fort they asked the Americans for a lead on where they might find him. They were only able to provide them with an office address, as that’s where they met him before they went off on their trek to Hamunaptra. Sherlock had gone sullenly silent in the room and John knew he had had some history with the man.

Swallowing his pride, he went and knocked on Sherlock’s door. “Sherlock?”

“What could you possibly want now,” Sherlock asked petulantly.

“Do you have any ideas of where we might find Moriarty,” John asked cautiously.

“Why don’t you release me and then I can show you, myself,” Sherlock offered.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Can’t or won’t,” Sherlock countered.

“Either,” John answered. He sighed, leaning into the door. “Come on, Sherlock. It’ll be much faster if you help us. The sooner we find him and return, the sooner you can get out of there.”

Sherlock scoffed. “You sure you won’t keep me locked up? All tucked away, out of the way where you won’t have to concern yourself with my person.” Sherlock made a huffing sound and then it sounded like he threw himself onto the bed. With a dramatic arm flung over his face, no doubt.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply. “Sherlock, you know that’s not the reason I want you to stay behind. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Hmph,” was all the answer he got in return.

“Fine,” John said sternly. “If you’ve got nothing to share with the class, we’ll be off, then. Be back soon.” He stood there for a full minute to see if Sherlock would break and share any information with him. But it seemed Sherlock was more than willing to let them wander Cairo without direction and so, without further ado, John and Lestrade went on the hunt for Moriarty.

When they had walked a few blocks from the fort Lestrade said conversationally, “that was quite a show in there. Tossin’ Sherlock over your shoulder like a naughty child.” Lestrade chuckled at the memory.

John grinned along with him. “Well, he was behaving childishly.”

“You know he just wanted to help,” Lestrade said unhelpfully.

“Then he could have shared some information on where we might find Moriarty instead of sulking.”

Lestrade turned a sober look to him. “Do you think that leaving him behind will keep him safe?”

John couldn’t entertain the idea that keeping him out of sight wouldn’t keep him safe. “I think it’s his best bet,” John answered, beginning to doubt.

As they neared Moriarty’s office they grew more cautious. They kept quiet, keeping to the shadows as night fell. They crouched in a doorway, checking the walkways and the streets for anything out of the ordinary before creeping up to the building that house Moriarty’s office. Pistols in hand, they eased open the door to the lobby. They checked the directory in the lobby and took to the stairs to the appropriate floor.

Reaching the landing for the floor for Moriarty’s office they heard grumbling and shuffling and banging coming from one of the offices. Fearing that they were too late, they rushed to the office to confirm and saw none other than John’s old brother in arms, Beni. The man was so busy rifling through drawers and tossing their contents that he didn’t notice their approach.

He holstered his gun and spoke aloud, startling Beni. “Let me guess, spring cleaning?”

Beni ran towards the window, prepared to jump out of it, but John was having none of that. He picked up an upturned chair and threw it at Beni to stop his retreat. It caught him between his knees and lower back, effectively toppling him. When he tried to rise, John grabbed the back of his shirt and forcibly dragged him up from the floor and pinned him against the wall.

“You came back from the desert with a new friend, didn’t you Beni?” He shook the man for emphasis.

“What friend? You are my only friend,” Beni insisted.

He shook Beni again, pressing him harshly into the wall. “Why are you working for Imhotep, Beni? What’s in it for a coward like you?”

Beni quoted, as if he were a devotee, “ _‘it is better to be the right hand of the devil than in his path’_. As long as I serve him, I am immune,” he ended smugly.

John punched him, bruising his eye. “Immune from what?” Beni muttered under his breath in Hungarian. John was certain it was some kind of curse, having spent enough time with the man to guess that much. “What was that,” he asked, searching for clarity.

“I don’t want to tell you,” Beni admitted. “You’ll just hurt me some more.”

“You think I won’t hurt you now? Even if you don’t tell me?” He smiled a deadly smile, angry, beyond angry with Beni. He shoved him over to a desk, his back laid out on the desktop, and he covered him with his body, pulling out his gun and pressing it to Beni’s head. “Tell me what you were looking for in here.” He pulled back the hammer with his thumb and added, “try not to lie to me. Give me one reason, just one, and I’ll pull the trigger and not feel one, tiny bit of bad about it.”

Beni swallowed, deciding whether or not his attachment to life was so great. He faced displeasure with his new master if he told John what he was searching for. But the more immediate promise of death seemed to be a bigger deterrent against silence or lying. Finally he said, “the black book that they found at Hamunaptra. He said it’d be worth its weight in gold.”

Lestrade broke in asking, “what did he want the book for?”

“You think he tells me anything like that?”

John pressed the gun more firmly, “I think he might.”

Beni gulped, licking his lips. “He said something about bringing his dead girlfriend back to life. I swear, that’s all he’s told me. He wants the book, just the book.” His hands came up in a surrendering pose and John loosened his hold on him, preparing to release him. Then he added quietly, “and Sherlock, of course.”

A terrified scream from outside drew all their attention away from the interrogation inside the office. All three of their heads snapped to the open window and, after a second of distraction, Beni saw his chance to run. He punched John, hard, in the jaw. John let his grip on Beni go and clutched his jaw and Beni kicked at him, getting one lucky, well-aimed foot in the solar plexus. John was effectively winded and Beni made his escape by jumping from the window.

John and Lestrade rushed to the window just in time to watch Beni run down an alley and a crowd shriek in horror. The parting crowd revealed a lone figure crouching in the street. When it rose, it stepped to the side and then the dry, emaciated body of Moriarty became visible to John and Lestrade. They looked on in horror as the creature turned and spotted them. In its arms was the Book of the Dead and one of the canopic jars. It’s face was pale, half formed and ugly. It snarled at them in incomprehensible rage and then opened it’s mouth wider than any human mouth would ever be able to stretch and flies poured forth from him in a torrent. The buzzing swarm was immense, overwhelming and terrifying. The swarm was directed at them and they managed to close the window just in time for the swarm to hit it and break up to spread over the crowd of people. They could hear the screaming but refused to look on it.

John heaved against the window, holding it closed. “Well, that’s two down, two to go.”

Lestrade nodded, unease written on his face. “And then he’ll be coming after Sherlock.”

The two men waited until the screaming died down and peeked out the window to see if the coast was clear. The crowd and the swarm had mostly dissipated and so, pistols in hand, they raced back out the lobby door and made their way to the fort.

 

///~\\\\\

 

Sherlock had tried for over half an hour, once John and Lestrade had left, to look for a suitable lockpick. He vowed then and there to never be caught without a set on him ever again. What’s the use of knowing how to pick a lock when you don’t have the means to do so when you’re trapped somewhere you don’t wish to be?

After his fruitless search, he flopped down on the bed, fully intending on reorganizing his mind palace. After all, he had a slew of new information to store and he hadn’t had much time to categorize it. But eventually, instead of traversing his mind palace, the stress of the past several days and the lack of sleep caught up with him and he fell asleep.

In his dream he was wandering the halls of the museum, looking at all the wonders it housed, both big and small. Eventually he heard John’s voice calling to him _Sherlock, Sheeerlooock…_

He searched for him and in the antiquities room where they housed the statues Sherlock found him. _Catch me, Sherlock!_ dream John requested, laughing. Sherlock laughed and gave chase. They darted between statues and around sarcophagi, careful not to knock anything over until finally Sherlock cornered him against a statue of Anubis. They were both laughing as Sherlock caged John’s body with his arms. John’s arms settled around Sherlock’s waist and they wordlessly drew their faces closer. Dream John whispered _Ank-Su-Namun_ just before he kissed Sherlock.

Alarm bells shot off in his mind. John wouldn’t call me that! _John wouldn’t call me Ank-Su-Namun!_ He tried to push dream John away but he was insistent and he soon pressed Sherlock against something solid and kissed harder, his tongue snaking into his mouth.

Dream John’s tongue tasted wrong. The tongue in his mouth tasted like rot and sand. He pushed at dream John as hard as he could and gasped and suddenly his eyes were open.

There above him, pressing him into the mattress with his hands and his lips, was Imhotep.

He couldn’t stop the reflexive scream that was pulled from him.

Imhotep’s face was a face that was mostly filled in, except for a large hole on the side of his cheek. The body pressing into him was solid but when he pushed against the mummy’s body it squelched and his fingers and toes curled, recoiling at the sound and the feel of him. He screamed and thrashed trying to get the inhumanly strong creature off him but nothing seemed to work.

He was near hysterics when the door to his room was kicked open and John shouted, “get the fuck off him!” Imhotep’s head and body lifted off him immediately and Sherlock squirmed away and off the bed. He pressed himself against the wall, putting as much space between him and the mummy as he possibly could given their current positions. He could hear the guttural, angry mutterings from Imhotep and then John saying, “look who’s come to say hi!”

The creature screamed and a cat hissed and then in a flash Imhotep turned to sand and flew out the window. When he was gone, John let the cat in his arms go, cooing at it and telling it “good job, kitty” before letting the feline go back to it’s mouse hunting routine and rushing to Sherlock’s side.

“Christ, Sherlock! Are you alright?” Sherlock felt himself shaking, unable to control his fear. How could he let himself fall asleep? How could he let himself be so exposed and so easily targeted? Where the fuck had Davis and Henderson been? Weren’t they supposed to be “protecting” him? God, what if John hadn’t been there? John. “John,” his whispered, voice broken, unable to say much of anything else.

“I’m here, Sherlock, shh.” He grabbed a hold of Sherlock’s arms and lowered him to the bed. “Take a deep breath. You’re alright.”

Sherlock sat on the bed and quickly brought his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms around himself securely. “I...I know.” He gulped air in, trying to steady himself. “I j-just need a moment.”

“Of course,” John soothed. He spoke softly to Lestrade, “could you scare up a glass of water for him?”

“Sure thing, Watson,” Lestrade complied.

Once Lestrade was gone, giving them a few minutes of privacy he spoke softly to Sherlock. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He,” Sherlock gulped, remembering his dream and the awful taste in his mouth. “He kissed me. But I was asleep. I was asleep and I was dreamt that it was you and you kissed me but you tasted wrong!” He was beginning to hyperventilate again but John’s arms came around him. “Shh, Sherlock, hey,” he tried to soothe him. “He’s gone and he’ll never get to you that way again. Not if I have any say about it.”

Sherlock shook his head, “you can’t promise that, John. Everyone’s dying and it’s all my fault!”

John jerked against him in surprise. His fingers found themselves under Sherlock’s chin and he forced the librarian to look him in the eyes. “Let’s get one thing straight, Sherlock. You are not responsible for this curse.”

“But if I hadn’t brought him back none of this would have happened,” Sherlock insisted.

“And you’re the only one who can fix this,” John told him. “I believe in you, Sherlock. Brilliant man that you are, I have no doubts that together we’ll find a way to put that bastard to rest. You’ve just got to calm down and believe in yourself.” Sherlock heard John’s words. John didn’t try to placate him with platitudes and untruths. He didn’t try to tell him that raising Imhotep wasn’t his fault. But he did call him brilliant. Told him that he had faith in Sherlock. John was so kind, so trusting. He found himself wishing that John had run out on them before the trip. Then John would be safe, the world would be safe. But John was right.

It was up to Sherlock to end the mummy’s reign of terror. He would see this to the end. He owed it to them all. Most of all John. Sherlock finally collected himself enough to accept a glass of water and take a few small sips. Handing the glass back to Lestrade he said, “we need to go visit the museum. Look for something to help us end the apocalypse.” He jumped up off the bed in a whirl of activity, pausing only to grab his jacket from it’s place on a chair and swing it over his shoulders.

“After all,” he said before striding out the door. “It’d be terribly rude of me to save your life only for you to be killed because of my actions.”

He didn’t wait to see if he was being followed but he did smile when John’s footsteps followed him from the bedroom. _There just may be some hope yet_ , he told himself as he made his way to the parking lot.

 

///~\\\\\

 

The four remaining men piled into one car after Sherlock lifted a set of keys from one of the soldiers in the fort. They raced through the city of Cairo to the museum and were met in the lobby by his Mycroft and Ardeth. The whole ride over John was silently seething. So fucking furious that the Imhotep was able to get so close to Sherlock. Close enough to _kiss_ Sherlock. That abomination put his lips where John wanted to put his own and it made him sick. The fact that Sherlock had been dreaming of him and only to have it interrupted, violated by that monster, it made John’s blood boil. Rage roiled in his gut at what he had seen when he burst into Sherlock’s room. Sherlock flailing and screaming, trying to get the creature off of him. The creature not caring a whit for Sherlock’s terror, just continuing his assault of the young man with his lips.

John had nearly reached for his pistol and emptied it into him.

The only thing that stopped him was the fact that if he missed even one bullet then Sherlock would have been hit. And he could never hurt Sherlock.

So instead he threatened Imhotep with the cat in his arms and watched helplessly as the creature flew out the window and away from them for the time being.

Sherlock seemed to be recovering from his ordeal rather quickly since his brain had been given a puzzle to work out. Just before they reached the museum Sherlock uttered a surprised “oh” and told them all that he may have found a solution.

“Well, what is it,” Davis demanded. “Out with it?”

“Oi! Watch your tone,” John told him. Then in a more peaceful tone he asked Sherlock, “you’ve got a plan, then?”

“You’re not going to like it,” Sherlock warned.

“Probably not,” Lestrade agreed.

Sherlock stated plainly, “we need the Book of Amun Ra.”

“But…” John was lost. “Isn’t that back at Hamunaptra.”

The car jolted as they pulled up to the museum and Lestrade put it in park. Sherlock nodded and said, “that’s exactly where it is. If the black book can raise a person from the dead then-”

“Then the gold book can kill them,” Joh finished for him, astonished.

Sherlock nodded, pleased at John’s quick deduction.

Lestrade asked, “then what exactly are we doing here? Shouldn’t we be hauling arse back to Hamunaptra?”

Together, the four of them strode through the doors and into the arms of Mycroft and Ardeth. Mycroft bid them to hurry away from the doors. “There’s been some unrest in the city. I fear it will get worse before it gets better.”

“To answer your question, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, “we will be moving as quickly as we can back to Hamunaptra soon. But first, we need to find where the gold book is buried.”

“And just how exactly are you going to do that,” Davis asked.

“How do you think I knew to look in the statue of Anubis for it before,” Sherlock snapped. At Davis’ silence he continued, “there’s a trove of information in this museum and some of it about Hamunaptra. We just need to find the carvings I studied before and then we can go.”

“God, that’s like finding a needle in a haystack,” Lestrade bemoaned.

“Not entirely,” Mycroft said. “I think I know which stone you’re thinking of, Sherlock. This way.”

Mycroft led them up a flight of stairs and down a corridor. As they passed a window, the sounds of chanting drew their attention. Looking outside a mass of bodies covered in sores marched steadily on towards the museum. Their voices chanted in unison “Imhotep, Imhotep, Imhotep”. Lestrade gasped, Davis whimpered, the Holmes brothers, John, and Ardeth looked on in resignation. They watched for a few seconds before Lestrade’s voice said quietly, “my least favorite of the plagues. Boils and sores.”

“It has begun,” Ardeth said. “The beginning of the end.”

Sherlock straightened himself resolutely. “Not yet it hasn’t. Come along.”

Without another word, he strode off in the direction Mycroft had been leading them and stopped in front of a stone that loomed in front of them, stretching a few feet above their heads. “How are you going to decipher all that,” Davis asked, obviously terrified.

“He doesn’t need to decipher all of it,” Mycroft said in a tired voice.

“Just one part of it,” Lestrade finished.

Together, the Holmes brothers scoured the stone to search for the passage Sherlock had studied before when researching Hamunaptra. Sherlock spoke aloud, trying to organize his thoughts. “According to Bembridge Scholars, the golden book of Amun Ra was located in Hamunaptra inside the statue of Anubis.”

“Seems like the old boys at Bembridge were mistaken,” Lestrade said dryly.

“So it would seem,” Sherlock replied, just as dryly. “They mixed up where they were buried. So, it stands to reason that we just find the passage that mentions the black book and find where it’s buried and then we head there to recover it.”

Mycroft pointed out a spot to Sherlock to decipher and moved aside for him. “That’s where it talks about the black book,” Mycroft pointed out.

“So if the black book was inside the statue of Anubis than the gold book must be somewhere nearby,” Sherlock muttered to himself.

There was a great crash in the museum and everyone but Sherlock rushed to the banister to see the ground floor below them. The door had been broken open and hundreds of bodies poured inside the lobby, searching for them.

“Come on, Sherlock, faster,” Lestrade urged.

“ _‘Patience is a virtue’_ ,” Sherlock quoted at him.

Mycroft snorted and muttered, “how ironic.”

John reminded Sherlock, “not right now, it isn’t.”

Lestrade, already nervous and jumpy, wasn’t eager to stick around. He told them he would go get the car started so that they would be ready to leave the moment they figured it out. He had just made it to a service exit when Sherlock exclaimed in triumph. “Aha! The golden book of Amun Ra is in Hamunaptra inside the statue of Horus!” He punched the air, “how’s that for experience, Bembridge Scholars?”

“Very impressive, brother mine,” Mycroft congratulated. “But might I suggest that we get moving before something unfortunate befalls us?”

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed, immediately sobered. On the tails of Lestrade, the group raced out the service exit and found Lestrade waiting in their car. The engine was revved up and ready to go. They helped each other clamour into the cab and once everyone was inside Lestrade hit the gas and off they sped. They heard a voice shout out Imhotep’s name, warning the creature of their escape and John knew immediately it was Beni.

He shouted back at the scummy man, “you’re gonna get yours, you hear me?! You’re gonna get yours!”

They didn’t get to hear the man’s reply because instantly there were people swarming around them, trying to slow the car down. “Lestrade,” John barked. “Don’t you dare slow down! Don’t you dare stop! They’ll all be on us in a second if you do!”

“I’ll have to agree with Captain Watson,” Mycroft added.

“But there’s people in the way,” Lestrade replied, helplessly.

“They’ll either move or be hit! But if you stop then we’re dead,” John shouted back. It didn’t matter that Lestrade expertly navigated his way through the tiny streets of Cairo. Eventually, the brainwashed minions of Imhotep threw themselves on the car and, while Lestrade drove on, the rest of them fought off the attackers. They shoved person after person off, barreling them into shop stalls, parked cars, and other groups of the mob. Davis overbalanced himself on the edge of the car and, one misplaced punch had him sailing over the edge and onto the pavement.

“Fuck,” John muttered. “We’ve lost Davis,” he shouted to the rest of them. In the distance they could hear the pop of revolver shots. Then silence. Then a terrified scream that followed them as they sped away.

Lestrade screamed as one of their attackers successfully got a hold the wheel and jerked it sharply, running them into a stone watering trough. The impact flung off their attackers and jarred the passengers but there was no time to sit and lick their wounds. They raced out of the car, determined to keep running, determined to beat Imhotep. But soon the crowd had them surrounded and pinned against a wall.

All exits covered. No way out.

“We’re trapped,” Lestrade said, fearful resignation coloring his words.

“There may yet be a way out,” Mycroft said reasonably. “Calm yourself.”

The crowd fell into silence and parted to allow the creature through. Ardeth gasped. “The creature…he’s fully regenerated.”

Imhotep spoke to them in ancient Egyptian, an air of pride in his voice. Beni translated for them. “Come with me, my prince. It is time to make you mine forever.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “ _'For all eternity'_ , idiot.”

Beni cowed a little at Sherlock’s insult but went on translating for the rest of them, nonetheless. “Take my hand and I will spare your friends.” Imhotep extended his hand and they all stared at it, unsure of where to go from there.

Sherlock looked at all them out of the corner of his eyes whispering, “anyone got any bright ideas?”

“I’m thinking,” John said, harsher than he meant to.

“Well think of something fast because if he kills me and turns me into a mummy you’re the first one I’m coming after.”

John stared at him, mouth agape. He couldn’t be serious? He couldn’t possibly think John would let him go alone to his death while John watched. Not when he had promised Sherlock that Imhotep would never get to him again. But Sherlock did indeed to intend to do just that.

As John watched, Sherlock took a step forward and reached out his hand to clasp his with Imhotep’s. The fear and anger bubbled up in him once more and he couldn’t help himself. He pulled his gun out and pointed it at Imhotep’s face. Sherlock saw it and bid him to stop. “No, don’t, John. You’ll only make this worse.”

“How can this possibly get worse,” John shouted.

“Think, you great idiot! He still has to take me to Hamunaptra to perform the ritual!”

Ardeth was suddenly at his side putting a calm hand on his gun. “He’s right. Live today, fight tomorrow.”

“But,” John whispered dumbly, “I promised…”

“You shouldn’t have made that promise,” Sherlock said sadly. But then he stood straighter and put on a brave face. Into battle, he seemed to say without words. “I’ll be okay,” Sherlock assured.

John didn’t like it one bit, watching Sherlock give up without a fight and mosey on into Imhotep’s arms, content to gamble his life on the chance that John and the rest of them would get to him in time. But what choice did he have?

He lowered his gun and the creature had the gall to smile at John’s surrender.

John kept his eyes on Sherlock and the creature as he slowly led Sherlock away. John’s eyes never left Sherlock’s, feeling like he was abandoning him even further if he looked away for one second. John could hear Beni frisking Lestrade, searching for the key that he had protected so well up til then. Once Beni had rushed back to Imhotep’s side, the creature took the key, put it in his robes and shouted something at the crowd that made Sherlock’s eyes widen in fear. “No! No, you can’t,” Sherlock shouted, trying to release himself from the creature’s hold.

John may have not spoken Egyptian, but the message was clear. Imhotep wanted them dead and they would become so if they could not find a way to escape.

John scanned everywhere desperately for a way out and his eyes found a manhole. He pocketed his gun and bent to pry the cover from the street and reveal a hole large enough for them to escape through. He motioned to Lestrade, “down here!”

“But what about Sherlock?!”

“We’ll get him back, don’t worry,” he told him, not daring to doubt himself, as he shoved Lestrade towards the hole. Once Lestrade was through he pulled Ardeth over even as the man had moved to pull his sword from its sheath. “You next!” The man didn’t fight him, seeing they were greatly outnumbered and didn’t stand a chance. He disappeared into the hole and then John reached out for Mycroft. “Come on! Your turn!”

“Find my brother,” he shouted as he pulled out his sword and began cutting down men. “Don’t worry about me! Go after Sherlock!” Mycroft was cutting his way along the building, effectively cutting himself a path away from the hole and making a distraction away from them. Mycroft was sacrificing himself to save them all.

John felt his throat tighten, not relishing the idea of telling Sherlock that his brother gave his life for him. But he wouldn’t let the man die in vain. He would escape and get Sherlock back.

John jumped down into the hole and let the darkness swallow everything.


	13. Chapter 13

All night, the group of tired, terrified men, ran through the sewers. Eventually they came to an exit out onto the Nile. Even though they were exhausted to the bone, the men managed to steal another car and get out of town before another mob of Imhotep’s found them. They raced back towards their hotel in the desert, the one they had left just two days prior, to see if they could persuade one more person into their rescue party.

John drove while Lestrade and Ardeth slept. John told himself he would sleep once they had everything they needed for the next leg of their journey. He just hoped it would work, hoped that they would get there in time to save Sherlock and save the world.

God, he never thought he would actually be responsible for the fate of the world. But since the task had fallen to him, he would not flag nor fail. He would get the job done. Just like always.

They made it to the fort in a few short hours, taking the roads too fast, not stopping for a minute. Once there, they inquired at the bar for their last hope to save humanity.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Winston is, by chance,” John asked the barkeep.

He told them that he had just returned to the airfield to resume his vigil of the skies. The RAF had only him stationed out there, awaiting instructions that would never come. And Winston hated it. He missed the war and John could empathize. The feeling of camaraderie with one’s fellow soldiers, the sense of power in protecting King and country (even if he wasn’t fighting for Britain), the pride in completing a successful mission.

But unlike Winston, John was glad he had made it out of war alive. Especially since he now had something to live for.

They redirected their search to the airfield that housed one lonely airstrip, one lonely plane, and one lonely pilot. One of the mechanics pointed them to a sand dune where Winston had set up a cozy afternoon tea for himself; complete with a phonograph gently wafting Spanish music, a tea table laden with food, and a young boy holding an umbrella over him for shade. The absurd luxury of it all in such a place brought a ridiculous smile to John’s face.

The trio made their way out onto the sand to meet their savior, Winston. “Hello Winston, could we have a word with you,” John asked as they walked up to him.

“For you, dear Watson, anytime. Sorry I can’t offer you a seat, old chum, but you didn’t give me any notice of your visit. Would you care for some tea, though, while you’re here?”

They obliged him in eating a few sandwiches and biscuits from the tea table while they told Winston their story. The career alcoholic pilot didn’t seem to believe them and didn’t seem inclined to man his plane without suitable motivation.

“That’s quite the story, Watson, but what’s this got to do with His Majesty’s Royal Air Corps?”

John smirked at him and answered truthfully. “Not a damn thing.”

The hand that lifted a teacup to his lips stopped midway to his mouth. “Is it dangerous?”

John shrugged, trying to pass it off casually. “Well, you might not live through it.” He mimed thinking about it. “Probably won’t.”

Winston grew excited then. “By Jove, do you really think so?”

Lestrade chuckled and added, “well everyone else who’s joined our little adventure has died so why not you?”

Winston put aside his tea cup and saucer and stood, highly interested. “So uh...what’s the challenge then?”

“Rescue the damsel in distress, kill the bad guy, save the world.” Lestrade snorted at the “damsel in distress” bit, but that didn’t seem to bother Winston none.

“Oh!” He laughed and clapped John on the shoulder before saluting him, “Winston Havelock, at your service, sir.” After saluting he shook their hands and lead them back down to the air strip. “Come along, boys! No time to lose!”

Back on the airstrip Winston became a flurry of activity. He barked orders to his mechanics, telling them to help him prepare his plane for flight. “Fill the gas, check the wheels, oil those propellers, put ammo in that rear gun! We have a mission, boys! Finally! A mission worth my salt!” He was giddier than a child on Christmas morning and John didn’t know whether to be excited for him nor feel a tad guilty at luring a man to his possible death. Even if all the man had ever wanted was an honorable, glorious death in battle.

After the preflight checks were done he rounded on the group and asked, “right, then! Who’s coming?”

“We all are,” John stated.

“Oh,” Winston said, frowning for the first time since their arrival. “Well, you see, there’s only two seats in the cockpit.” He pointed to the plane to emphasize his point. “And I obviously need to be in one of them, being the pilot and all.”

Lestrade frowned,“then how are we all supposed to get to Hamunaptra?”

Ardeth pointed to the wings. “How sturdy are those?”

“Quite sturdy,” Winston assured. Then he grinned brightly. “Say,” he pointed between Lestrade and Ardeth. “You two wouldn’t happen to be similar in weight would you?”

Lestrade saw where his line of thought lead and he pointed a finger at them, “ooooh no you don’t!”

“It’s for Sherlock,” John reasoned. “For the world.”

“Sod the world! Why don’t you get out on the wing?”

“Can you shoot that thing,” John pointed to the rear gun.

Lestrade scowled at it. “Not well,” he finally confessed.

“Then onto the wing with you.”

A few minutes of rigging and two sets of goggles later, Ardeth and Lestrade were strapped to the wings on their bellies. They took off without a hitch and headed towards Hamunaptra. Lestrade’s terrified screaming as they took off tapered into silence once they were underway. His silence stretched so long that after an hour of flight he asked if he was alright.

“Do I bloody look alright?!” Lestrade’s voice was angry, scared, but unharmed and so John let him be.

He shouted over to Ardeth, who seemed to be enjoying himself quite well, “how you doin’?” A happy laugh from Ardeth was all the reply he got and John left it at that.

Not far from Hamunaptra, about twenty minutes flight time, they spotted a gigantic sand tornado. Winston shouted at him, “you see that? I’ve never seen one so big!”

“Amazing,” John agreed. John watched as the tornado moved on past them at a high speed, as if it had a mind of its own. Once it disappeared from sight, John watched the horizon behind the plane for anything unusual.

“Ten minutes, Watson,” Winston shouted at him.

“Roger that,” John replied.

Then, out of nowhere, the valley below them shook and sent up a cloud of dust. As John watched, enraptured, the sand rolled like a wave until it collected into a wall just behind him. And then a face appeared in the sand, the face of Imhotep, and John forgot to breathe.

 

///~\\\\\

 

Sherlock had traveled by car, bus, train, horse, camel and donkey. Never in his life did he think he would fly through the air in the middle of a giant sand tornado. It was his least favorite method of travel and he hoped sincerely that would never again have to endure it. Highly unlikely considering that if John didn’t get to him in time he would be sacrificed and the end of the world would come crashing down. And if John managed to save him then Imhotep would be vanquished and no longer able to bundle him around in a cyclone.

Either outcome was more preferable to Sherlock if it meant he never had to experience it ever again.

After hours of travel, seeming longer made by the discomfort of it all, he and Beni were dropped unceremoniously on a mound of sand just on the outskirts of the city. Beni landed directly on top of him and he punched the worm of a man in an effort to get him moving. “Kindly remove yourself from my person or I’ll kick you in the head,” Sherlock warned.

Beni rolled off him and muttered something about needing a new job. Sherlock heartily agreed but refused to talk to the man further. He rubbed his sand-grit eyes, running his tongue on the inside of his mouth to try and regain some measure of moisture, and shook the sand from his hair.

As he righted himself, the cyclone died down and the sand fell away to reveal Imhotep strutting towards Hamunaptra as if he didn’t have a care in the world. For all he knew, he didn’t.

Then a whirring in the sky caught his attention and Sherlock searched the bright blue sky for the source of the sound. Imhotep heard it too. He spotted the plane before Sherlock did but once Sherlock saw it he felt an unbreakable smile stretch his face. “John,” he whispered hopefully. _Who else would be this far out in the desert in a plane? No one but John. He came for me_ , Sherlock thought happily.

His happiness was short lived, however, because once Imhotep sussed out who it was, he used his godly powers to direct the sand in the valley below into a giant wall of sand. It pursued the plane doggedly and Sherlock looked on in horror as it swallowed the little plane whole. “Stop it! You’ll kill them,” Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself.

“That’s the idea,” Beni said, his eyes stuck on the scene.

Sherlock panicked, trying to find a way to convince Imhotep to leave them be. He could hit him or kick him but he doubted his ability to make an effect on the creature through brute strength. He wasn’t a very strong man to begin with and when put against god-like strength, he was no match. And then he got an idea that he knew would work but the thought of it turned his stomach.

Wasting no more time, he reached up and grabbed the creature by the head and kissed him.

The effect was immediate. The creature’s eyes opened in surprised, but a second later they were closed, lost in the sensation of Sherlock’s lips. He worked his lips as seductively as he could, trying to steal away the creature’s concentration just enough to free the plane from the sandstorm. He was silently thankful that the creature no longer tasted of rot, now that his body had fully regenerated. _Thank god for small miracles_ , he thought ruefully.

Sherlock watched as, slowly but surely, the sandstorm died down and the little plane was released. He pulled back from the kiss, triumphant, and watched as the plane made to land. The creature snarled, displeased with Sherlock’s distraction. But then Imhotep smiled as grey smoke puffed up from the plane’s engine and caught fire. Sherlock’s heart leapt into his throat, wishing harder than he ever had for anything ever before that they would survive the impending crash. They watched as the plane sputtered and flamed and then disappeared behind a ridge only to send up a plume of sand.

“No,” Sherlock whispered, disheartened.

Smugly, Imhotep grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled him along towards the city. Sherlock followed numbly, eyes locked on the ridge where the passengers of the plane had, in all likelihood, died. John had come and now he’s dead, Sherlock thought silently. _This is it. This is how it all ends_. But with John gone, Sherlock couldn’t find it in him to care.

 

///~\\\\\

 

When the plane made its downward path to earth John had a moment of blankness. His death was near and he felt numb. And then the plane struck the ground and John’s neck was wrenched horribly and he passed out. Minutes later, he roused just enough to feel drained and heavy and think himself to be dead. But then again, he was certain dead people didn’t feel pain.

He groaned and carefully began moving his limbs to check for injury. First his fingers and toes and once those were clear he moved his wrists and ankles. Then elbows and knees and his shoulders. Finally, gingerly, he moved his neck and gently arched his back. His neck had bore the worst of it; he had whiplash something awful and maybe a bruised rib but, all things considered, he was lucky.

He unbuckled himself and rolled out of the plane, winding himself and confirming for a fact that he had a bruised rib. By the time he managed to stand, Ardeth had already freed himself from his broken wing and had rifled through their meagre belongings for their supplies. Then he heard Lestrade’s frantic cries for help.

“If you gents wouldn’t mind getting me down I’d be endlessly grateful IF IT ISN’T TOO MUCH TROUBLE!” He was struggling with his bonds and John took pity on him.

“Here, hold on,” John said before untying the ropes that bound him to the wing. Once Lestrade was free he checked the cockpit for any activity on Winston.

There was none.

Sitting still as stone in his pilot’s seat, was Winston Havelock, finally gone to rest. John checked his pulse just to be sure but it only confirmed what his eyes had told him. Then the sand beneath them started to shift and the plane groaned. It started to slide down into the crater of sand and Ardeth pulled John away.

“Move back! It’s quicksand!”

From a safe distance, the three men watched as Winston was finally buried in the sand, reunited with his wingmen, just as he always wanted. John gave the man a solemn salute before shouldering his duffel and heading towards the city.


	14. Chapter 14

It didn’t take the three men long to walk to Hamunaptra. John silently thanked Winston for putting them down so close to the city when they finally entered the cool tombs. They didn’t waste any time with trying to find what they needed first to save Sherlock; the statue of Osiris. The book of Amun Ra was their first priority if they were ever to save the poor librarian.

It was hard to determine which way to go without being able to read the glyphs on the walls since Lestrade’s ancient Egyptian only good enough to pawn a relic. But between Ardeth’s intimate knowledge of the city and Lestrade’s rudimentary ancient Egyptian, they were able to find a path.

They had made brief headway into their mission when they found their path blocked, recently, by a pile of rocks.

“Clearly, someone didn’t want to be followed,” Lestrade pointed out, his words dripping with sarcasm.

“Clearly,” John said tightly. “Well, no time like the present. Time to dig,” he directed, reaching up to grab a loose rock from the top.

Together, the three men worked the stones loose and moving them aside to break through, digging by torchlight. It was difficult work to try and remove the rocks without moving too loudly or letting them fall loud enough to alert Imhotep to their presence in the city. Eventually, they cleared a path that was wide and safe enough for them to pass through.

While gathering their supplies, Lestrade tripped over a rock that had shifted off the pile and it sent him flying down a set of stairs. He shrieked, first in surprise and then in pain, and then the sounds of John and Ardeth’s footsteps followed him into the darkness of the stairway.

“Are you okay,” John asked him once they caught up with him once he stopped rolling.

Lestrade winced at John’s medical prodding, checking him for broken bones. “I’ll be okay once we get Sherlock and get the hell out of here.”

“You and me both,” John concurred.

He helped Lestrade stand and then the three men walked down the rest of the stairs, torches throwing eerie shadows over the walls as they went. They reached the bottom and it let out into a vast darkness that felt heavy. John squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness, and then his eyes found a single beam of light streaming down from the ceiling. The sunlight glinted against a shiny piece of metal and it jogged John’s mind back to that first day of their dig.

Sherlock had used mirrors to light up a whole room. Maybe all that little piece of metal needed to shine fully was a nudge.

John pulled his pistol from its holster and aimed. His expert marksman skills paid off and the moment the bullet hit it, the mirror tipped just so and then the whole room was alight with gold. Golden sunshine and mountains of treasure.

“Whoa,” Lestrade breathed, uncomprehending of the sheer vastness of wealth they had just stumbled upon.

Nothing they could have said would have described it hugely enough. As far as the eye could see was a sea of gold in various incarnations; statues, coins, jewelry, sconces. If it exists, it was there in golden form. It was a horde that would make any dragon proud.

“Do you see this,” Lestrade asked, breathless.

“Yep,” John said, starting down a path to the other side of the room.

“Can you believe it?”

“Nope.”

Ever the opportunist when money was involved, Lestrade asked, “can we just-”

“Nope,” John said sternly before Lestrade got ahead of himself.

They got several feet from the foot of the stair when muffled groaning and scratching caught John’s attention. John whipped his head this way and that to try and find the source of the disconcerting sounds but couldn’t see anything. And then hands shot up from the ground beneath them, grasping empty air. John and Lestrade stared on in disbelief as decayed, horribly preserved mummies clawed their way up from the ground to stand before them, surrounding them.

“Who the hell are these guys,” John asked, eyes glued to the mummies.

“Priests,” Ardeth answered, hands twitching for his sword. “Imhotep’s priests.”

“Oh, alright then.” John unholstered his guns and began shooting.

The three of them began shooting their way out, fighting their way to an exit. With shambling mummies on their tail, they burst into an antechamber that held the statue of Osiris.

“Hello there, Osiris,” Lestrade said with mock cheer as John and Ardeth continued shooting at their pursuers.

Once the flow of mummies began to trickle, John left Ardeth to cover them while he helped Lestrade break into the statue. “Think this one will have any salt acid waiting for us,” John asked dubiously.

“Only one way to find out.”

They pulled crowbars from John’s duffel and broke into the seams of the front of the statue. When no booby traps were imminent, they worked the stone loose until it clattered to the floor. Once the stone was removed, it left a large hole and they could see a wooden box sitting inside the statue, waiting to be opened. Together, they pulled it out and popped the lid off.

After pulling away the delicate linen wrappings, they were greeted with a glint of gold that made John’s lungs breathe just that much easier.

They didn’t have much time to celebrate their find as Ardeth began shouting at them. “They’re still coming!” He took a shotgun from John’s duffel and pumped off several rounds into the cavern from which they spewed until it was empty. He looked at the mummies, resigned, and then back at the two Brits.

“Find Sherlock. Kill the creature.” He nodded a short farewell and then threw himself down the cavern from which they came, sword swinging to and fro, cutting down mummies. His war cries lighting a fire under their arses, the two wasted no time in trying to escape.

“Which way now,” John asked.

Lestrade pointed to the wall in front of them. “According to the glyphs back there, there’s a hall that loops around a great deal and ends up right behind that wall and then down into a ceremonial room. Said something about a “lake of souls”. If they’re anywhere, that’s probably it.”

“Well then, let’s make ourselves a door,” John said. He pulled a stick of dynamite from his duffel, lit it quickly with a match and tossed it at the wall Lestrade had indicated. He tugged Lestrade behind the statue for cover just before it exploded, making a perfect hole that led to a hallway. “Well done, Lestrade,” John praised.

“Thank you,” Lestrade replied, gathering the book in his arms as John shouldered his duffel.

“Time to go get Sherlock,” John said confidently, leading the way into the dark hallway.

 

///~\\\\\

 

Sherlock had not paid much attention to his surroundings when Imhotep first led him and Beni down into the underworld of Hamunaptra. His mind and heart felt numb, knowing he was going to die, that John and probably Lestrade had died because of him and the whole world was not far behind them. He moved mechanically, like a zombie, not daring to try and run. Where would he go? Where would he hide? It was over. He was done for.

At length, Imhotep led them to a large, cavernous room at the bottom of a set of stairs. The room was shrouded in darkness until the creature used his god-like powers to light all the torches and candles that were still present after centuries of disuse.

In the dark, the room was shadowy and ominous. In the light, it was terrifying.

Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs, drinking in the sight that was meant to be his last. There were inky black pools of tar-like liquid at either side of the foot of the stairs and at various points throughout the cacophonous space. In the center of it he could see two large altars, standing side by side, that looked like a cadaver’s tables. Sherlock swallowed when he realized that he was meant to lay on one of them.

Beni shoved his shoulder to get him to move. “Keep moving,” he said dispassionately.

Sherlock scowled at him, his nose wrinkling in disgust. If he was going down, he was going ruin someone’s day before he kicked it. “You know,” he started, sneering at the man and putting as much vitriol in his words as he possibly could, “nasty, little sidekicks like you always get what’s coming to them. Always.” And without another word, he started down the stairs towards his death.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs Imhotep spoke to Beni, Sherlock translating the ancient Egyptian perfectly. “ _Bring him here. Watch him while I prepare the ritual_.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Beni said, prodding Sherlock between the shoulder blades with his gun.

Sherlock watched as Imhotep reverently arranged the canopic jars the other explorers had unearthed on one altar. He then took the key that started their entire adventure and opened the book. He skimmed the book, murmuring words of prayer and humility as he searched for the spell he wanted. Suddenly, thudding and screaming from above them startled them all. Hope sprang anew in Sherlock’s heart. _Somehow they survived the crash. Somehow they made it here! God, John, you’re amazing!_ Sherlock’s heart hammered in his chest with painful, renewed hope. But he kept silent. If Imhotep was to figure out who had made that racket, he wouldn’t do so because of him.

It seemed that Imhotep was taking no chances with resurrecting Ank-Su-Namun this time around. He was going to make damn sure he wasn’t disturbed again. Imhotep reached grabbed the jar with Hapi’s head, the one holding the remains of mummified lungs, poured out a handful of mummy ash into his hand and blew it onto a wall. He chanted a spell, coolly and confidently, and then watched as it took effect.

Almost instantly, there was muffled groaning and scratching coming from inside the wall. Seconds later, the two figures carved into the wall began to crack and crumble and then, as if they were chicks hatching from eggs, two mummies emerged from the wall. Sherlock watched, mouth agape at the impossibility of the scene he witnessed as the mummies shambled forward only to bow in front of Imhotep. Imhotep gave a small bow of his head in deference to his mummified brethren before speaking to them. _“Kill the intruders. And wake the others._ ”

Without answering, the two mummies shuffled off to do as they were bid. And Sherlock could do nothing to stop them.

After they were well away Imhotep turned on Sherlock with a feral smile. _“I know you can understand me,”_ the creature told him.

“ _Do you wish to converse with me or just kill me,_ ” Sherlock replied.

Imhotep chuckled. “ _I like your fire, young one._ ” He took a step towards Sherlock and Sherlock took a step backwards. “ _You remind me so much of my dear, Ank-Su-Namun. She had fire, too. Such passion. Such cunning. You would have admired her, too, no doubt.”_

_“It’s a shame I will never get to meet her. Since you plan on sacrificing me for her sake.”_

_“It need not be painful,” Imhotep said with a softness he did not have before. “I could make you sleep so you would not feel a thing. You could float straight into the afterlife and never know the pain that it is to be disemboweled. Death is painful, child. I remember it well.”_

_“Why offer me such kindness?”_

_“Because I am not entirely cruel.”_ He walked forward, Sherlock stepping back, until he had pinned the librarian against the wall. _“It is Seti you have to blame for this. Seti and his son. His foolish, short-sighted revenge made me what I am now. But I can be generous and kind to those who help me.”_

_“And just letting you sacrifice me would be helping you, then?”_

Imhotep nodded and Sherlock pondered. If he let Imhotep put him to sleep and his death was unavoidable then he would feel nothing. He would not die in pain, alone, in the bowels of the city of the dead. But John had made his way into the city. There was still a chance to kill Imhotep and stop the apocalypse. To do it, John and Lestrade would need him to translate the book, to find the spell to end him. He would need to be awake, even if that meant that there was a chance of meeting his end in impossible amounts of pain. He couldn’t afford the mercy.

He raised his chin defiantly and said, _“you’ll have to kill me before I agree to help you. There’s no possible way I will willingly climb onto that altar.”_

Imhotep shrugged, unperturbed by Sherlock’s reply. _“You do not inconvenience me in the slightest. Either way, you die and Ank-Su-Namun lives. If you are so keen to die in pain, then I shall give it to you. In abundance.”_ And then he placed a hand on Sherlock’s head, whispered a few words and Sherlock’s world went black.

 

///~\\\\\

 

When Sherlock awoke he felt groggy. His arms were stretched up over his head and his limbs felt heavy. He tried to move his arms to rub his eyes but they were stopped by something. The reality of his position hit him like a punch to the stomach: he was stretched out on an altar with his hands and feet shackled and his torso left completely unprotected.

He was undeniably fucked.

He turned his head, trying to get a better picture of his surroundings when he came face to face with a dead face. He swallowed a scream, knowing exactly who it was. He took in her features, wrinkled and papery due to the passing of time. He was amazed at her preservation. She was almost immaculate. Eyelashes and hair all in place, skin tight to the body, wrappings well preserved. She was taken well care of when she was embalmed and Sherlock gave a silent kudos to the ancients for their skills.

Movement in the distance made his eyes shift and he watched as Imhotep, clad in ceremonial robes, walked solemnly to the altars with the Black Book in his hands. Shuffling sounds behind him made him whip his head around in time to see a group of mummies shamble to stand in a perfect circle around the altars. They began bowing in rhythm, chanting in a way that Sherlock would think impossible given their level of decay, just as Imhotep opened the book to the spell he needed.

Imhotep looked down at the body of Ank-Su-Namun, love clearly written on his face. He spared a moment to ghost his hand over her face, a gesture of fondness and affection, before beginning the ritual.

Imhotep began chanting the beginning of the spell and Sherlock began to sweat. He gambled wrongly. There was no way to stop the ritual without John or Lestrade. He was going to die and he was going to feel every excruciating minute of it.

A gurgling noise distracted him from Imhotep’s chanting. He turned he head towards the sound and watched in horror as a spirit floated up from the inky, tar-like water of the pools by the stairs. It floated towards them, unhurried, as the chanting grew louder. Sherlock watched as it settled over Ank-Su-Namun’s body and then seeped beneath the wrappings.

Immediately, the body began to shriek. The body convulsed, shivering with newly awakened consciousness. He spared a small thought for how much it must hurt to be rotting but alive.

Imhotep paid no heed to Ank-Su-Namun’s pain as he lifted a large, golden dagger high above him. He said to Sherlock, completing the spoken part of the ritual, “ _with your death Ank-Su-Namun shall live._ ” He smiled at him cruelly, “ _and with her at my side I shall be invincible._ ”

He was about to bring the dagger down directly into Sherlock’s stomach and he couldn’t stop the panicked writhing or shout that he emitted in the face of death. He had never before been so happy to hear Lestrade’s voice.

“Hey, Sherlock! We found the book!”

Imhotep stopped inches from his navel and Sherlock heaved in undisguised panic and relief. The creature whipped around to see Lestrade standing at the top of the stairs, clutching the golden book of Amun Ra to his chest. Pride bloomed in Sherlock’s chest. His friends had done so well.

“Well done, Lestrade! Now kindly get me the fuck out of here!”

“Right-o!” Lestrade said.

“You have to open the book and find the inscription that removes his immortality! Find the inscription!”

Lestrade answered back, “it’s got one of those locks on it, Sherlock! We need the key!”

“It’s inside his robes!”

Imhotep strode on carelessly towards Lestrade, eyes on the book, Ank-Su-Namun and her resurrection no longer in the forefront of his mind. Sherlock’s eyes were locked onto Lestrade as well, hoping beyond hope that Lestrade would find a way to break into the book and end their ordeal once and for all. He was so enveloped in the scene in front of him that he never heard John creep up behind him and break the chain to one of his shackles with a crowbar.

He couldn’t stop the excited exclamation when he realized what was happening. “John!”

“I’ve got you, Sherlock, we’ll have you out in a moment.”

But he would have to wait a little longer. Imhotep had heard Sherlock’s cry and set his priests on them. He commanded them, “ _Kill him!_ ”

On cue, the circle of priests rose and began attacking John. As John fought the undead, Sherlock frantically tried to free himself. Which is an incredibly difficult task with one hand free and no lockpicks. _First things first when we get back, I am sewing lockpicks into every pair of trousers_ , he vowed to himself as he tried to work his still trapped wrist free. John managed to reduce the bodies to wriggling masses of parts in a matter of minutes.

Imhotep watched with a mixture of resentment and amusement. He had not anticipated a challenge this time but he seemed to relish it. He looked on as John pried the rest of Sherlock’s restraints off and helped him from the altar.

Lestrade burst in from a dark corner saying, “fuck, fuck, fuck me, I’ve fucked it all up.”

“What did you do,” Sherlock asked incredulously.

He was answered by ten armored and armed mummies bursting in from a side door in perfect battle formation. They marched in and then formed a line to begin advancing on them, slowly. They didn’t seem to know who to attack first.

Sherlock asked, “did you finish the inscription?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Finish the inscription, then! You’ll be able to command them!”

“Are you joking,” Lestrade asked in disbelief.

Sherlock had no time to answer him, however. A strong arm latched itself around his throat and pulled, choking him and throwing him off balance. He was then thrown and narrowly missed getting split open by the sacrificial blade. Ank-Su-Namun had taken matters into her own hands, determined to live again.

Sherlock took off running, trying to give Lestrade more time to gain control of the soldier mummies, and trying to give Ank-Su-Namun the slip. She pursued him doggedly, swinging the blade haphazardly. Sherlock barely managed to keep a few steps away from her. He spoke to her, egging her on, trying to get her to falter, “ _you move pretty quick for a corpse.”_

 _“We’ll see how fast you move when you’re dead,”_ she shouted back in a rasping voice.

He heard John shouting and fighting with his own undead assailants but he couldn’t help him. Not until Ank-Su-Namun was dealt with. And she wasn’t leaving him be any time soon. He kept weaving around statues and around corners, trying to tire the woman out but to no avail.

Lestrade’s voice rang out, “I can’t figure out this last symbol!”

“What does it look like?”

Lestrade groaned, trying to accurately describe the picture. “It’s...uh...a bird? A stork!”

Just then, Ank-Su-Namun barreled into him and pushed him against a wall. She raised the dagger above him, ready to shove it through his head. He gasped around the hand holding his throat, trying to breathe while his mind raced to find the symbol in his mind palace. He grappled with the mummy, one hand on her blade-hand the other on the one wrapped around his throat. In their struggle he managed to clamp down on her blade hand and snap her wrist, making her drop the blade and release him.

Free, he sucked in a lungful of air. He shouted back as loud as he could through his aching throat, “Ahmenophus!” He staggered away, catching his breath as Lestrade finished the inscription.

“Hootash im Ahmenophus!”

Sherlock looked to the soldier mummies to see them poised with their weapons above John, who had fallen to the ground in his haste to retreat from them. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat to see how close he had come to losing John.

He heard Imhotep trying to gain their attention, to get them to attack his intruders again. But his commands were not heeded. They stood at attention, waiting for Lestrade’s instruction. And he gave it to them with glee. In ancient Egyptian he commanded, “ _Kill Ank-Su-Namun!_ ”

They obliged willingly.

She obviously had not heard the command as she advanced on Sherlock single-mindedly. But when the clanking of their dusty armor got close, she turned to the source of the sound and shrieked, knowing what was coming for her. Imhotep saw it, too. He tried to save her, rushing towards Lestrade to wrest the book from him and regain control over his soldiers. But he was too late.

She shrieked his name, “Imhotep!”

“Ank-Su-Namun!”, he cried, abandoning his efforts with Lestrade to run to her side and fend off her attackers. He ran towards her as the soldiers stabbed her, chopping her limbs off as she screamed.

He realized at once that there was no saving her. He had not been quick enough. He lost his love all over again and he was out for blood. He stalked towards Lestrade, determined to kill the man who stole his control from him first. With one hand he reached out and grabbed Lestrade by the throat, lifting him into the air as the man struggled. He leaned in to speak directly to Lestrade before he killed him, “ _you’ll pay for her death you vermin!_ ” 

And then he was suddenly released. Lestrade fell to the floor gasping as Imhotep gasped in pain, clutching the stump where his arm used to be attached. John had come in to save him, swinging a sword down to slice through the creature’s hand. While Imhotep was busy magically reattaching his arm, he led Lestrade away to where Sherlock stood, hoping to form a new plan of attack.

Luckily for them, Lestrade was a master of pick-pocketing.

He had seen the opportunity when he was near death and he took it, stealing the key for the book right from within Imhotep’s robes. He held it up to them and said, “think this’ll help?”

“Lestrade, you madman,” John said, entirely impressed.

Imhotep was less so, and growing angrier by the minute. His whole plan gone to ruin and he had them three to thank for it. He stalked towards them with anger pouring off of him with every step. Sherlock grabbed the book from where Lestrade had dropped it and shouted at John, “keep him busy!”

“Yeah,” he said, licking his lips nervously. “No problem, keep the immortal, angry mummy busy. Sounds doable,” he said to himself sarcastically.

Not sticking around to watch him fight, more determined than ever to find the way to kill Imhotep, Sherlock and Lestrade scurried to a safe distance to scan through the book, looking for the right spell. Sherlock’s eyes flitted over hundreds of pictographs, only partially deciphering one before ruling it out as the one they needed before moving onto the next one. He had flipped through two pages of the gold and stone book before he finally found what he was looking for. With a laugh on his tongue and a smile on his lips he shouted with confidence, eager for it all to be over.

_“Cadeesh mal, cadeesh mal. Paradus, paradus.”_

Immediately, a portal to the underworld opened at the top of the stairs and through it a chariot manned by spirits barreled through and made a bee-line for Imhotep. He tried to run but they were faster than him. They ran right through him, knocking the wind from him as they went. Then they rounded on him and raced back the way they came. As they went, the spirit form of Imhotep tried to escape their clutches and return to its body. Imhotep chased them, screaming for them to _come back, they couldn’t do this to him, he would be further damned without his soul._

But they did not hesitate in their retreat. In seconds they were back through the portal and it closed behind them, leaving Imhotep behind.

The creature turned, murder in his eyes and he shouted at them. “ _Look what you have done! You have ruined me! You kill my love, you kill my priests, my soldiers, you remove my spirit! What is left for me?!”_

While he shouted, advancing on them, John held a sword up in defense, asking Sherlock in a barely contained panic, “I thought you said it was going to kill him!”

“It will,” Sherlock assured.

John didn’t seem to believe it but when Imhotep came within his reach he stabbed him nonetheless, trying to keep distance between them. As the blade sunk into Imhotep’s body, he curled in on himself, shocked, pained, no longer angry but afraid. He clutched the blade in his belly, raising one hand to his face in disbelief.

“He’s mortal,” Sherlock told them.

“ _No...it can’t be,_ ” Imhotep muttered. He staggered away from them, clutching his dying body until he backed into the inky black pool at the foot of the stairs. As soon as his feet touched the water, gooey hands and faces rose up from the depths and grasped him, pulling Imhotep down. He growled in pain and muttered something in a distorted voice before his head was pulled under and the pool went still.

Sherlock translated, “ _'death is only the beginning'._ ”

 

///~\\\\\

 

John couldn’t believe they had done it. He and Lestrade managed to save Sherlock and together they had saved the world. Imhotep had been defeated and they were alive, if a little battered and scarred. He wanted to grab Sherlock and pull him close and kiss him to celebrate their victory. He wanted to renew his promise to protect him from danger. But just as he was about to grab his hand and do just that, the walls began to shake and dust fell from the ceilings as they began to collapse. The city was caving in on itself and they were deep inside and underground. Without the city’s silent, magical sentinel, it could no longer support itself. It was going down, taking everything within its borders with it. They would have cheat death once more and escape a crumbling city as it crashed down around them.

“Time to go,” he said without preamble and the other two men heartily agreed. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand, not wanting to be apart from him for one moment longer, and dragged him towards the stairs.

Lestrade was steps behind them and then they heard him fall. And then a splash.

John whipped around, expecting Lestrade to have fallen into the pool but instead he saw Lestrade sprawled on the stone and scrambling to get up. The Gold Book nowhere in sight.

Sherlock shouted in angry disbelief, “you lost the bloody book?!”

“Forget it, Sherlock! We need to go now!” John tugged him, even as Sherlock continued to stare at the pool and shout abuse at Lestrade.

“I cannot believe you lost the one thing we came here for!”

“If you don’t stop shouting and start running you’ll soon join it, now move!,” John shouted at him. Sherlock gave up in a growl of frustration and ran ahead of them, leading the way out.

The city seemed to be sinking in sections. As soon as they left one section, the walls would close in, falling to the floor and closing off everything behind them. All around them, hallways and rooms were crumbling and being blocked off. They ran on, determined to escape death once more. Their only path remaining was through the treasure room and they tore through it, not daring to look behind them nor stop to scoop a handful of treasure to take home.

As they came up on the stairs a voice rang out from behind them, “wait for me!”

Beni appeared as if from nowhere, _almost certainly treasure robbing,_ John thought as he ran without looking back. “Just keep running, Beni!”

“Don’t leave me, Watson!”

As they ran towards the stairs that led out, the ceiling began to sink down, impending doom written all over it. Their only way out was narrowing by the second, the doorway closing inch by inch. John watched Sherlock go through, then Lestrade, and then he followed, urging Beni to run faster and save himself. He may not like the man, but he didn’t relish the idea of someone getting crushed to death by tonnes of stone. “Come on, give me your hand!,” he called out to him.

“Wait, don’t leave me!,” Beni shouted, crawling on his hands and knees and reaching out for John’s hands. But John knew he wouldn’t make it.

The door was inches from closing and he knew the rest of the city was not far behind. Crouched low, he met Beni’s frantic, scared eyes and said, “goodbye, Beni,” before dashing off to follow Sherlock and Lestrade out.

“No! No, wait! Don’t leave! Watson!” Beni’s cries were cut off abruptly. John kept running.

They climbed countless stairs and ran through a narrowing hallway until they could see sunlight calling to them. With the last reserves of energy, they ran hard to the outside world and when they emerged, they all gave a whoop of delight. Their feet pounded the shifting sand as the city collapsed in on itself. They didn’t dare stop, sure that if they did they would fall through the ground and end up back in the city, crushed to death. It wasn’t until they reached the solid stone of the desert floor that they paused for breath, gasping as they watched the city crumble. The camels that had been left behind on their last trip had had the same idea. They stood nearby, groaning in distress, not knowing why the world was quaking.

At long last, the dust settled and they could breathe again.

“That,” John said, panting, “is the most...ridiculous thing...I have ever done.”

Just as breathless, Sherlock smiled at him and said, “and you invaded Hamunaptra.”

John couldn’t help it. He giggled. He giggled uncontrollably, voice high and strained due to his lack of breath. Sherlock and Lestrade soon joined him in his merriment, the three of them collapsing into a pile. The relief was palpable, and they took a moment to bask in their triumph.

“You did it,” a voice from behind them said, making them yelp in surprise. They all scrambled to stand, ready for a fight once again. But when they saw who it was, they relaxed.

“Ardeth,” John said with a smile. “How did you make it out?”

Sitting atop a camel, looking haggard but alive, wrapped in bandages, was Ardeth. “I cannot reveal all my secrets,” he said with a shy smile. “My thanks to you, for putting the creature to rest. May allah smile on you.” He blessed them and then signaled to his camel to move. Without any further words of farewell, he began walking out into the desert, presumably to rejoin his brotherhood.

“Our thanks to you, too, Ardeth,” John shouted. All he got in reply was a wave of the man’s hand. John could appreciate him. A man of action and few words. John respected him immensely, glad that he survived.

They watched the man disappear into the desert and when he was no longer visible Lestrade asked. “So what do we do now?”

“We go home,” Sherlock said.

“Home,” John echoed, not sure where his home was. But as long as it was with Sherlock he couldn’t find it in him to care.

“Empty handed,” Lestrade added. “Par for the course, really.”

“Not entirely,” John said, clasping his hand in Sherlock’s, eyes full of hope.

“John?” Sherlock looked at him with an open, confused expression.

John stepped into his space, putting a cautious hand on Sherlock’s hip. He licked his lips, gathering his courage. What did he have to lose? After surviving death too many times to count, nothing as far as he was concerned. He leaned in and said, “you saved me, again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock bit his lip and ducked his head. “Well, it’s only fair,” he said, smiling shyly. “You saved me, too.”

John smiled, knowing he would save Sherlock a hundred times if he would smile at him like that every day of his life. “I was wondering,” John started carefully, “if we could get a second chance on that kiss?”

Sherlock nodded, “yes, John,” he whispered before cupping the shorter man’s head and pressing their lips together. John instinctively pulled Sherlock closer and snaked a hand into Sherlock’s hair, deepening their kiss. They opened up to each other, tongues dipping in enthusiastically, tasting their victory and newfound appreciation for life. John captured Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, drawing a moan from the man that made desire coil in John’s belly.

“Ahem,” Lestrade coughed, interrupting their snog. “As lovely as your little romance is, might I suggest we get out of here before some other world-ending event happens?”

John and Sherlock pulled apart sharply, having forgotten about Lestrade’s presence.

“Sorry, mate,” John apologized, sheepishly.

“I’m not,” Sherlock said, smiling but blushing ever so slightly.

“I don’t rightly care either way as long as we get going, yeah?” Lestrade walked up with three camels in hand, holding out the reins to them.

Sherlock frowned at the one in his hands. John saw it and asked, concerned, “what is it, Sherlock?”

“Do we really need three? I’d much rather…”

“Rather what,” John prodded.

Sherlock shook himself, obviously embarrassed. “Nevermind. It’s silly and sentimental and not at all appropriate.”

Something clicked for John and then he grinned at Sherlock, amusement and fondness making him light. “Did you want to share a camel, Sherlock? Ride off into the sunset?”

Sherlock didn’t confirm. He just made to mount his camel. “Like I said, it’s silly. No need to indulge me.”

John grabbed him by the waist before he could mount, pulling him close. “But what if I want to?”

Sherlock bit his lip and blushed. “You wouldn’t mind?”

John nuzzled Sherlock’s cheek with his nose. “Not a bit.”

Lestrade groaned, pained by the sickeningly sweet affection. “I don’t care how many bleedin’ camels we take. Just get on the bloody animal so we can get going!”

John laughed, helping Sherlock mount. “Okay, okay, hold your horses,” he told Lestrade as he slid onto the camel in front of Sherlock. Sherlock’s arms came around his belly to hold him close as the camel rose to begin their journey.

“Finally! Homeward!,” Lestrade instructed, taking the lead.

Soon after, the sun began to set. Sherlock chuckled behind John, his chest rumbling against John’s back. John smiled, turning his head to look at Sherlock. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s all rather cliche isn’t it?” He gestured with a flick of his wrist at the expanse in front of them. “Going on a wild adventure, saving the world, defeating the enemy and then riding off into the sunset with a love interest? It’s like a story I used to read as a child.”

“Is that so? And what stories were you reading as a child?”

Sherlock smiled sheepishly. “Pirate stories, mostly.”

“That’s absurdly adorable.” He tilted his head up in a silent request for a kiss and Sherlock granted it, slotting their lips together. This kiss was chaste, a small press of lips before pulling back to look into each other’s eyes. “Shall I write a book about this? The great exploits of “The Great Sherlock Holmes: Mummy Killer Extraordinaire”!”

Sherlock laughed and smacked him playfully. “Don’t you dare!”

John turned his eyes back to the front and leaned into Sherlock. “Just you watch, it’ll be a best seller. No one will believe a word of it.”


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the promised eventual smut!

The first thing that the three adventurers did when they returned to town was rent a room in their hotel and arrange for a visit to the bathhouse. Crusted in all manner of unspeakable debris, they had to nearly chisel their sand crusted, sweat stained clothes off of them. As tired from their ordeal as they were, they made the effort to clean themselves impeccably, even scrubbing their toes to get them squeaky clean. Sherlock found the clean water so relaxing that he nearly nodded off in the hot room.

The next thing they did was order an absurd amount of food. A wide array of curries, bread and meat dishes were placed before them and they ate heartily. After all the main dishes had been cleared, they indulged in a pan of umm ali, relishing it’s decadent sweetness. Their bodies fully satisfied in cleanliness and in nourishment, they gave into their last requirement; a good night’s sleep.

When Sherlock awoke he found himself in John’s strong but sleep-slack arms. The late afternoon sun shone on him and made his skin shine golden. A pang of fondness stabbed his heart as he finally let himself feel for the first time his love for John. He had pushed it off from the moment he had awoken in the sand after their night of drinking. Firstly because of inexperience and doubts and then later because stopped the apocalypse was more important that his feelings for John.

But with the danger over and the world quiet and safe once more, he couldn’t deny his feelings any longer. He loved the man at his side, undeniably and wholly.

How could he not?

John was beautiful, brave, witty, and he obviously cared for Sherlock. His single-minded efforts to save him in Hamunaptra were testament to that. The kisses they shared on their way back to civilization, the ones they shared before collapsing into bed, were further proof. He knew why he loved John Watson.

But did John love him? Or was he a product of adventure, soon to be forgotten when the high of success wore off. He had asked for a second chance at a kiss and felt relaxed and happy in his arms as they returned from the desert. He had extended easy, affectionate touches ever since their passionate kiss at the foot of Hamunaptra’s ruins and Sherlock was all too willing to accept and return them.

But maybe John felt indebted to him. Sherlock had saved him twice. Did he think that he owed Sherlock his life because of that? Did he only have a passing fancy for Sherlock because they shared in an impossible adventure? Like brothers in arms? Would John tire of him and move onto the next adventure without him?

Suddenly he wasn’t so sure of where John’s feelings stood and he stiffened in John’s arms, not sure if he should stay or leave. John seemed to sense his disquiet and stirred. He woke slowly, face scrunching and rebelling against waking, his arms tightening around Sherlock. It made Sherlock’s heart clench with fondness. At length he yawned and nuzzled Sherlock’s neck with his nose and cheek. “Morning,” he mumbled.

“Afternoon,” Sherlock countered.

“Mmm, already? How long did we sleep?”

“Long enough,” Sherlock replied stiffly.

John realized Sherlock was nervous but didn’t seem to know why. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

The endearment made Sherlock gasp. No one had ever called him that. He had never given anyone a chance to get that close. And John did it without even trying. It brought a tear to his eye. “N-nothing,” he said quietly, hoping his voice sounded stronger than he thought it did.

John’s eyes flickered open and focused on Sherlock. He took in his quick breath and glassy eyes and immediately went into protector mode. “Hey, shh, what’s wrong?” He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Tell me, love.”

Sherlock hiccuped, not believing what he heard. “Love?”

John stiffened. He could read John’s face like a book: _oh god, did I get it wrong? He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want this. He thinks this is a mistake. I’ve ruined it somehow. Not good not good not good._ John moved to sit up but Sherlock stayed him by wrapping his arms tighter around John’s arms, keeping him in place.

“You...no one’s ever...oh John,” Sherlock stammered before kissing him soundly. He crushed their lips together and tried to tattoo every word he couldn’t say onto John’s lips. Every lave of his tongue said _I need you_. Every moan said _I want you_. Every tug and press of lips said _I love you_.

John responded enthusiastically, pressing their bodies impossibly close. He slotted a thigh between Sherlock’s as he slotted one hand in Sherlock’s hair and the other firmly over his bum. Like puzzle pieces, they fit together perfectly and snugly. They kissed frantically, passionately, as if there would never be enough time to drink their fill. But eventually they had to come up for air and when they did they leaned their foreheads together, panting against each other’s cheeks.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John panted.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. “I, I-”

“Yes, love, tell me,” John whispered back.

“I need to know.”

“Need to know what?”

Sherlock licked his lips, pausing before taking the plunge. “Do...do you love me?” At John’s wide eyes Sherlock’s heart fell to his stomach. He tried to extricate himself and he said, “if I got it wrong...it’s- it’s alright.” Sherlock had made it to sitting up, one leg out of bed before John sat up and stopped him with a hand to his shoulder.

“Sherlock,” he said with pain in his voice. Sherlock winced, unsure of what he would find if he faced John. “Please, please look at me.”

Sherlock sighed and slowly turned his head. When his eyes met John he could see he was inches from losing control. John, a soldier who had seen death and destruction, had lived through tragedy, had undoubtedly loved many other than him, was brimming with pure emotion.

For him.

“Sherlock,” he said softly. “From the moment you saved me that day in the prison, you’ve held my life, my _heart_ , in your hands.” He reached out and tentatively took Sherlock’s shaking hands in own and brought them to his lips. He kissed each hand lightly before looking him in the eye once more. “And it’s still yours. As long as you want it.”

Understanding flooded over Sherlock all at once. John loved him. It was mutual. He loved him. Sherlock couldn’t contain his joy. He melted back into John’s arms, allowing the man to guide him back to the mattress. “Oh, John.”

“And if you need it any clearer,” John continued. “I,” he leaned in and kissed his right eye. Then he kissed the left and said, “love.” He hovered just above Sherlock’s lips and whispered, “you.”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. He cupped John’s head in his hands and pulled him down that last inch to kiss him. Their mutual groan of satisfaction was felt bone-deep. They held onto each other steadfastly. They sunk into each other, bodies slotting together to move together, delighting in every movement of their legs, hands, and lips.

Sherlock broke the kiss and John took the opportunity to kiss down his neck. “I love you, too,” he whispered to John. John whimpered into his collarbone, kissing it hard before nipping it. Sherlock keened, jerking beneath him and John soothed the bite with his tongue.

John gripped Sherlock’s thigh, dragging it back over his hip so that John could slot a thigh between Sherlock’s leg. Once done, the resulting friction made them both groan. Sherlock dug his blunt fingernails into John’s shoulder. “John,” he whined, “I need,” he said, without knowing exactly what he needed.

John nodded against Sherlock’s neck before rising off of him. The lost of heat and friction was a palpable loss and Sherlock whined at it. He didn’t have long to wait for it to return, though. Quick as lightning, John divested them of their nightshirts, reverently sliding the thin material off Sherlock’s head before tossing it aside.

Then John laid atop him again, their bare skin touching everywhere. Sherlock gasped and John groaned. Sherlock became painfully aware of his erection pressing into John’s stomach and John’s answering hardness pressing into his thigh. Experimentally, he arched up and felt their erections slide against skin and he shivered, moaning at the delicious friction.

“God, Sherlock, look at you,” John whispered above him. He leaned down, kissing a trail of kisses across his cheek until he got to Sherlock’s ear. “Absolutely gorgeous.” He licked the shell of Sherlock’s ear before pulling his lobe into his mouth to suck. Sherlock bucked and moaned beneath him, his hands scrabbling for purchase on John’s back. He felt a spurt of precome leave him and the wetness of it made the slide much more toe-curling when he moved. His hips began to thrust of their own accord, seeking release.

“John,” he cried, “I need more!”

“Yes, yes,” John answered before maneuvering himself to sit between Sherlock’s legs. He guided Sherlock’s legs to wrap around him, which Sherlock did tightly and enthusiastically, loving every point of contact between them. John then guided one hand between them and aligned their erections together, stroking them from root to tip, making Sherlock cry out.

“John! Yes, oh please,” Sherlock moaned and mumbled, gasping out his pleasure. “Fuck,” John panted. He removed his hand and wrapped his arms around Sherlock to hold him securely before lowering his body directly on top of Sherlock. Sherlock was near to screaming with frustration when John thrust against him and then he saw stars. The slide was perfect, made intense with their mutual leaking of precome, and Sherlock saw his end fast approaching. “So...so close,” Sherlock pled. “John please, oh god, please!”

“Yes, Sherlock, oh god, come on, love! Let me see you,” John encouraged, picking up speed, thrusting faster and harder against him pressing kisses to every inch of skin he could reach as he rocked. It wasn’t long before Sherlock’s orgasm ripped through him like a freight train. He cried out John’s name, body clenching and convulsing into aftershocks. John followed soon after, collapsing onto Sherlock in absolute bliss.

It took them long minutes to calm and come back to themselves. When they did they pulled apart slowly, mindful of the mess on their bellies. John, ever the gentleman, scooped up a discarded nightshirt and wiped up the mess. After tossing the cloth away, he settled next to Sherlock and pulled him close, kissing his shoulder. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered into his skin.

“I love you, John Watson,” Sherlock replied.

“Did you ever think riding off into the sunset would end this way,” John asked, smiling. Sherlock giggled and pulled him close. “Never. But I’m so glad it did.”

 

///~\\\\\

 

In the end, John and Sherlock would spend their lives together. After a brief, and unnecessary, moment of mourning for his brother, Sherlock returned to Cairo with the love of his life in tow to settle his brother’s affairs only to find him very alive and well. The Holmes brothers shared a brief account of their stories, finishing each other's sentences and congratulating each other on surviving the apocalypse. Mycroft would see the change in his brother, namely John Watson, but not comment. With Mycroft’s influence, and the absence of Moriarty’s negative presence, Sherlock was able to procure a membership to the Bembridge Scholars and later a teaching position at Cambridge. Sherlock heartily took the position and John followed him happily, finding a position in the new hospital and putting his old army training to use.

As the years rolled on the two became inseparable. They even retired the same year so that they could enjoy retirement together. They moved to a cottage in Sussex and Sherlock replaced his love of hieroglyphs with a fascination for bees. He ordered five hives and tirelessly worked to cultivate them and a large bee-friendly garden to keep them happy. John eventually wrote their story and, much to Sherlock’s chagrin, it was indeed a bestseller for a short while. It received a review in the London paper as a _most thrilling and captivating work of fiction_. John had the article framed and set it on their mantle next to the first copy ever printed of the book “The Great Sherlock Holmes: Mummy Killer Extraordinaire”. Sherlock bookended the framed photo with a jar of his bees’ first batch of honey. And at the end of his life Sherlock could honestly say that he had no regrets.

 

Take that, Bembridge Scholars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you guys so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, I certainly loved writing it for you all!


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